Chasing Shadows
by Ornamental Nonsense
Summary: The land north of Riften was unforgiving, especially in winter, but the guild needed answers. Mercer wanted them more than anyone, and a certain troublesome thief was going to help.
1. Chapter 1

**Chronology:**

Winter in Riften

Learning the Hard Way

Taking a Sick Day

The Shadow's Reach

Impropriety

* * *

The parchment sat on his desk, curling inward upon itself beside a broken seal. The wax was unmarked, the message unsigned. There was no need for identification given the script and diction—words that hinted at curiosity. The writer could be as curious as he wanted. Mercer Frey would give no explanation for his sudden interest in Daggerfall's affairs, particularly its politics. He hadn't been to the city since his youth, and barely heard news of his homeland these days, leaving much to be learned. He sat in the quiet of Riftweald's basement, and swirled wine around his goblet, contemplating the matter.

_"Mercer. You haven't asked, but I did some research since your letter first reached me. My resources in Daggerfall dismiss the king's death as a sudden illness. He was unwell, but hardly at death's door. It seems that he was accosted in his bedroom. A blow to the back of the head ended his life rather quickly, but the culprit was never found. Rumor is that it was revenge. It's a believable theory given some of his reported actions. The man had a penchant for suppression, but I can neither confirm nor refute how he died. If you share more, I'd be happy to do some more digging. Regards."_

A crease formed between Mercer's eyebrows as he stared at the wall ahead of him. There were no windows here, in the hidden rooms beneath Riftweald Manor, only stone and silence, and unlike the rest of the manor, no one except him had ever stepped foot inside. If a fool did one day discover and intrude in these deeper quarters, they risked death by his hand or the traps he'd set, but that was unlikely to happen. Prior to recent events, the manor itself had been undisturbed, only Vald having stepped foot inside. Extenuating circumstances had changed all that.

He counted the number of times Prim had intruded in his residence: five during his sickness, and then twice during the ordeal with the assassins. She still had the spare key, although where, he couldn't say. It was probably tucked in her armor somewhere, just like that sodding pendant she so treasured. He'd reclaimed the key the night she'd stumbled inside half-dead, but the sneak had swiped it again after spending the night. What did she hope to gain by keeping it? The woman wasn't foolish enough to try robbing him. She probably did it for the pure satisfaction of having _his_ key, as if she could march into _his_ house whenever she chose. She was smart enough not to make good on that.

_"Don't be so grumpy. I'm not staying. I just brought more medicine."_

And just like that, she'd set a potion by his bed, unruffled by his less than welcoming behavior. He should have known better. Letting her step inside had invited trouble, but he'd been puking his mind out, damn it, and shadows take him, but her assistance hadn't been wholly unwanted. It had spared him cleaning his own vomit off the floor if nothing else, the actions of Brynjolf's too-caring, mouthy thief, and now he knew she was an infernal werewolf of all things.

_Something Brynjolf doesn't know. _But he found that hard to believe.

Mercer finished his wine, and thumped the goblet onto the table, departing Riftweald. The assassins were gone, but they'd left a bad taste in the guild's mouth. The cistern's atmosphere was restrained, the thieves armed at all times and greater caution taken when trafficking in and out of the city. That someone was meddling had been clear weeks ago, but that someone had now shown an intent to shed blood, and the awareness was present in the faces of each thief he passed. They hadn't taken the guild's security this seriously in a long time.

He reached his desk, and was immediately joined by Brynjolf. The man wore a serious expression, arms crossed over his chest and stance wide. The air of business prevented other thieves from wandering closer, although more than a few cast long glances toward the pair.

"What did you find?" Mercer asked.

"The Dark Brotherhood was most interested in knowing why three Morag Tong assassins were active in the Rift. They've never had a presence in Skyrim before, or so the brotherhood's mouth told me. She did a bit of legwork and was willing to exchange her information for ours. Turns out our killers probably came from the northeast. How they ended up in Solitude is a mystery, but three Dunmer went through Kynesgrove about four months ago. They might be responsible for a murder in Windhelm, but that's neither here nor there. It doesn't appear they stayed in the city. They met with a Dunmer woman and left."

"Kynesgrove," Mercer mused. "What's the name of the inn there?"

"Braidwood. It's the only real place to spend a night up there besides Windhelm. Shall I send someone for a closer look? The brotherhood satisfied their curiosity with little attention to detail. They don't think the assassins were trying to set up shop."

"We already killed their competition. What more do they care about? I'd rather rely on our own ears, and the job had better be done properly. The thief who fouls this up will regret it."

If only he'd taken one of the assassins alive, but Prim had ruined the opportunity by eating the one he'd debilitated. As for the other swordsman, he hadn't been willing to pass up a killing blow with a werewolf closing—not that the Morag Tong would have verified more than he already suspected. A location though, he mused. Knowing exactly where his enemy was would have been nice.

"You're certain it's her?" Brynjolf ventured.

"Without a doubt. All those years I spent trying to track her down..." Mercer scowled, pacing behind his desk. "All the damned gold and leads, and twenty five years later she just appears from nowhere. I'm impressed she avoided detection for so long, not that she's been very successful in destroying us."

"You," Brynjolf emphasized. "She might want the guild destroyed, but it's your head she's after. That's some kind of hate, Mercer, the kind that burns everything in its path. You don't hold onto that much hatred for twenty some years unless you're willing to lose everything for it."

"And lose she will."

The words tasted like iron on his tongue, his mind conjuring images of a woman he hadn't seen in so very long. They were both older now, and still locked in this cursed death roll. He wondered whether she was still beautiful—whether the wounds he'd given her had left scars—all while Brynjolf patiently considered him. The man couldn't possibly fathom Karliah's reasons for hating him. No one could, and he'd fought hard to ensure that it remained that way. Old memories. It all seemed so very long ago, even if he studied the scar she'd left on his chest each and every time he removed his clothing.

"I never understood why she turned," Brynjolf darkly mused. "She used to ruffle my hair and put a good word in Gallus's ear. I thought she loved him. You could almost see it in the way she looked at him."

"You were a boy," Mercer replied. "I worked with her far longer than you did."

"Aye. As you say, but it still makes me wonder. I never...eh," he dismissed. "It's water under the bridge now. She's made an enemy of the entire guild no matter the reason. I'll go to Kynesgrove myself and see if our friends left anything behind. It shouldn't take long."

"No," Mercer intoned. "I'll be leaving tomorrow morning."

Brynjolf hesitated before his face set in a grim line.

"I guess it's rather personal," he accepted.

"If I'm right, I know why the assassins met her there. It's a convenient location from areas further north. The innkeeper must remember something."

"That's where Gallus was murdered," Brynjolf recalled, voice severe. "In the far northeast. Why would she return there? It's miserable land in the winter."

"Nostalgia," Mercer sneered. "Because it's symbolic. Because she can't or won't let go of what happened. Oblivion if I know! She probably thinks it's the last place anyone would look for her. Who knows how many years the bitch has been clinging to bones."

"Do you intend to go alone? The entire guild is invested in this."

He could guess what was going through Brynjolf's mind. The redhead's younger self had watched as he'd stumbled into the Ragged Flagon, bloody and near incapacitated after fighting Karliah. The woman's astounding marksmanship had nearly been the death of him, and young Brynjolf had stood there, mouth gaping and eyes large as melons while he was patched back together. Now a man, there was still a glimmer of doubt in Brynjolf's eyes—concern for Mercer's welfare—and the guildmaster yearned to grind it to dust. He would _not_ make the same mistakes with Karliah this time around.

"I'm hardly going to let her catch me with my pants down," he scowled.

"I meant no offense," Brynjolf coolly replied. "But I know what you're like when you set your mind on something. Don't forget that the guild's got your back."

At that moment, Prim emerged from the training room with Delvin at her side. Her voice easily carried around the cistern, and she stared at Mercer a moment before departing for the Flagon. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he noted that Brynjolf and his protégé shared an insistence on foolish notions and ideals, albeit their own versions. She, however, was a bundle of gritty contradictions that Mephala would have taken delight in unraveling.

"As it happens, I won't be going alone. No, you're needed here," he quickly stated. "I can't have the guild falling to pieces in my absence, and you're the only person I trust to deal with Maven if she needs anything." The unspoken question rested in Brynjolf's eyes, and Mercer lingered in the moment before continuing. "Your little protégé will be going with me."

...

"I see."

I see? Not the response Mercer was expecting, and he considered Brynjolf fairly predictable. He studied the man's posture and almost quizzical contemplation. A slight frown tugged at Brynjolf's mouth, yet the man offered no protest, not that it would have changed anything. The redhead cared for Prim greatly. That much was obvious, and since the first day, he'd done his best to buffer her fiery personality against Mercer's own. But she'd wanted to draw her own line in the sand, hadn't she? The thief could handle herself well enough, when she was paying attention.

_Did_ Brynjolf know that she was a werewolf? Mercer suddenly felt compelled to know, the thought of Brynjolf not knowing deeply satisfying.

"The lass can hold her own," the man replied, nonchalant. "Although to speak my mind, Mercer, I'm a wee bit surprised you'd choose her."

"You said she's talented," he dryly returned. "And her methods might prove effective in winning over the locals. They're a suspicious lot in Kynesgrove."

"I meant nothing to the contrary." _And you know it_, his tone implied. "You don't need to take the lass, but she'll do well. She always does, and she's a good fighter. I simply hadn't realized you could tolerate her enough for a job like this. You haven't worked with anyone in a long time. She might not know it, but you'll turn heads with this one."

Mercer couldn't decide whether Brynjolf was being critical or curious, perhaps both. The man's expression was devoid of emotion, hinting at a scrutiny his otherwise charming demeanor often masked. _This_ was why Brynjolf was second in command.

"You're being very direct tonight," Mercer noted.

"We've known each other a long time. I'd rather not dance around this one."

"And you're worried about your sweet protégé being gutted, aren't you? But this is guild business, and I'll handle it in whatever way I see fit. I'm not wasting time reassuring you." Then, with a sardonic curl of his lips, he locked gazes with Brynjolf. "She's not shy about shedding blood, if you didn't know. Karliah might meet her match."

"I don't doubt it, not for one moment." The comment was reserved, but the man's voice firm. "Prim trusts you, Mercer, and she'd walk into the deadliest dungeon in Skyrim. I'd merely ask that you make sure she knows what to expect."

Was the man giving his blessing to this little outing? Mercer's eyebrows warred between rising in question or lowering into a glare. He did not need the man's fucking approval, a fact that Brynjolf knew damned well. That the redhead had insisted on giving it anyway irked Mercer. And trust? Both Prim and Brynjolf should have been more careful about bandying the concept around, although the latter had uttered the word with caution this time around, as if wary of employing it. Was that a healthy dose of cynicism finally creeping into the man's voice? Miracles never ceased.

Brynjolf did not wait to be dismissed, a stiffness hinting at disapproval, yet there was no attempt to dissuade Mercer from his course. Good. It was a losing battle anyway, both against himself and Prim, who was unlikely to shrink away from a challenge.

His gaze remained pinned on Brynjolf's back as the man headed for the Ragged Flagon and Prim. She would no doubt know about Mercer's intentions in mere moments, and a wave of annoyance coursed through him. They were leaving at first light.

* * *

"Dagon's balls!"

"You're starting to sound like Delvin, Prim."

"And what's wrong with that?" Delvin groused.

Vekel didn't respond as he continued sweeping, and Prim kicked her feet up onto the chair opposite her. She and Delvin were seated in the Flagon, sharing a plate of oysters, their knives hard at work. It had taken her some time to master the technique, but Delvin was nothing if not passionate about the little morsels, and had taught her well. He'd laughed at her for pulling a face after swallowing her first one, the sliming creature sliding down her throat. With some frustration, she finally opened a shell that was giving her difficulties.

"Hands to your own side," Delvin warned.

"I'm only eating my share," she argued.

Another shell opened, and she tilted her head back, swallowing. They weren't the most appetizing thing she'd ever eaten, but she'd split the cost of a bucket with Delvin and was determined to eat her share. The man smacked his lips together and smiled.

"It's been too long since I treated myself," he stated. "Oysters are good for bedroom activities, if you catch my meaning."

"So that explains your interest," she grumbled in good humor.

"An old wives' tale," Vekel dismissed.

Prim grinned and reclined in her seat, her share of the plate consumed. Delvin was taking his sweet time, a bit of oyster juice escaping a shell to run down his chin. She sighed at his manners while following the motion of Vekel's broom, the rhythmic sweeping almost soothing. It was a lazy evening, and the Flagon was bare but for the three of them and the ever-present and silent Dirge. Trouble brewed just beneath the surface though. Prim's mind was easily wandering tonight.

"Delvin, I've been meaning to ask you something since you've been in the guild so long."

"Oh, and what's that, love?"

"Has the guild ever been religious?"

"Religious?" The man looked surprised, even a bit confused as he tossed a shell aside. "This isn't exactly the Temple of Mara, Prim. What put that idea in your head?"

"The thief I met in Solitude. Some of his comments were a bit strange. I asked Brynjolf, but he doesn't recall very much about it. You've been here longer, so I thought you might know something."

"Well, we've never been a religious lot. We've had a few religious members, but they're not the kind that bungle around blessing and preaching; that's for sure. There used to be a shrine here, I suppose, way back when Gallus was in charge, but I wouldn't call it religious. More like a figurehead on a ship, you know? For luck and as a symbol or something like that. I barely noticed the thing, and then one day it was gone."

"Gone?" Prim questioned.

Vekel's sweeping had slowed, the man drifting closer in interest. Maybe this wasn't common knowledge among the newer guild members, although Vekel had certainly weathered quite a few years in this place. Delvin glanced between the two of them, and rubbed a hand across his grizzle.

"Gone," he repeated. "It was brought in by Karliah, and after Gallus was murdered and the bloodshed finished, it disappeared. It must have been Mercer. I bet he smashed it to bits and pissed on the rubble. He never liked the thing—said it gave recruits the wrong impression—but that's not something you'd best bring up around him. It's not exactly a secret, but..." The man shrugged, and seized upon the last oyster. "You both know how he can be."

"No kidding," Prim mused. "Brynjolf told me about the fallout after the murder. He said part of the guild sided with Karliah, and that several people wanted to be in charge, and no one could agree."

"People died before it was made right," Delvin intoned. "I took a knife in the shoulder when Titus tried to eliminate the oldest members. A lot of thieves packed up and left rather than get involved. Smart of 'em. It was nasty business, and when the dust settled, we had to start from scratch. Mercer kept us together as well he could, but with luck a choosy whore, new members were hard to come by. Bad omen, the whole affair."

"And Karliah was never found," Prim recalled. "That's what Brynjolf said."

"That's a story in and of itself, and you can't blame people for having tight lips, love. Gallus was like a father to Brynjolf after Mercer found him. The two would talk for hours, and Mercer, well, he went way back with Gallus and Karliah. The three of them set up down here and built the guild. They wanted it to be as famous as the branch in Cyrodiil. I don't know how long they worked together, but they were quite the group when I joined. Karliah's betrayal cut deep."

Vekel shook his head and returned to the bar, tidying up for the night.

"I'm glad that was before me," he commented. "I'm turning in for the night. Don't steal from the bar or I _will_ cut back serving you, Delvin."

The man waved him off, looking distracted as he twiddled his shucking knife. Prim was hardly satisfied, more eager than ever for information. Brynjolf had told her much, but seemed to be holding back for some reason, perhaps due to personal discomfort.

"I hadn't realized that Brynjolf and Gallus were close," she commented.

"Thick as thieves, as they say," Delvin chuckled. "But him and Mercer were the real troublemakers. Between Brynjolf's curiosity and Mercer's daring, Gallus had his hands full."

"Brynjolf said Mercer taught him."

"Some of it, sure, but he wasn't a patient teacher. Shocked, aren't you?" he teased. "The two worked well enough together, I suppose. Brynjolf always wanted to go on jobs with him, like Mercer was his big brother or something, but they weren't all that close from what I could tell. Mercer came and went and might be gone for days without a word. It was Gallus who looked out for Bryn most of the time."

"Brynjolf must have been devastated when Gallus was murdered." Prim frowned, memories of her parents stirring just beneath the surface. Loss was never easy, and how much worse for a young boy who'd already been set adrift in the world? No wonder Brynjolf was so protective of the guild. "But what about Karliah?" she questioned.

"What about her?"

"Why did she do it?"

"Damned good question. We'll probably never know. Might as well scratch your ass and hope to see the past. She didn't like Mercer though. I can say that much. They were friends when I joined. She used to wrap her arm around him and make jokes—real friendly for a dark elf—but something must have happened, or maybe they grew apart. Whatever it was, they were no longer cozy by the time everything went to Oblivion. Mercer spent a lot of the guild's wealth trying to track her down, and Brynjolf was right there with him."

They sat in silence, the only sound that of nearing footsteps. Brynjolf emerged from the cistern's tunnel, and paused as he noticed the two of them. Prim waved in greeting, noting a weariness in the man's features, but determination as well. She'd seen him talking with Mercer, and knew that whatever had passed between them was responsible. She could only offer him her best smile as he approached, lifting her feet and patting the chair on which they'd sat.

"Right here," she insisted. "Delvin was telling me all about the guild's history. Oysters apparently do wonders for the mouth, not just other parts of the male body."

Delvin gave a toothy grin and threw an arm around Prim.

"You can test out the second part anytime, love."

"Terrible man," she huffed, playfully pushing him away. Brynjolf smiled as well, much to her relief. The tension between him and Mercer sometimes worried her. "Hey," she said, grabbing his attention. "Are you alright? Delvin and I, we saw that there was a meeting. Good news about the assassins?"

"You could say that," Brynjolf allowed. "You and Mercer are going after our lead."

"It's about time I was let loose. My shoulder feels just fine now."

Delvin and Brynjolf exchanged an ambiguous look that left Prim wary. What was it with these two and the nonverbal signals? She sat forward, a bit annoyed, but more concerned than anything. Brynjolf hadn't said that Karliah was the suspected culprit in recent events, but he'd said enough to clue her in.

"You leave tomorrow," he stated. "So you'd best get some sleep, lass, but before you do, I need to tell you a few things." The seriousness with which he regarded her rooted in her place. "I once knew an archer who could throw and shoot an apple mid-air..."

* * *

They would not be taking horses on this trip. Mercer didn't want the hassle of feeding, housing, or sneaking with the animals, making them more of a burden than anything. Prim had no objections to the decision, not when they were traveling light. They both carried simple packs that would make due should they become stranded in the wilderness, although Kynesgrove wasn't far from Riften. The journey would take a day and a half at most, the main road to Windhelm passing directly by the small town and associated mine. She didn't understand why Mercer had implied that they might be gone for a week or more, although the news hadn't surprised Brynjolf. Maybe the guildmaster just liked holding information over her head.

_He would_, she thought, not unkindly. He walked a few paces ahead of her, his guild armor concealed by the gray cloak with which she associated him. Hers was brown with fur around the collar, and she was happy for it as their boots crunched through the snow. It was a clear day and cold as usual, the pines around them offering a splash of green against the white landscape. They had passed out of the Rift and into Eastmarch, and barely a word from her companion.

_"She almost killed Mercer with an arrow through the chest. Barely missed his heart."_

Brynjolf's conversation from last night replayed through her mind, for there was little else to occupy her. Whoever this Karliah was, the woman was possibly the deadliest shot in Skyrim, and with years of hate to support her aim. Prim wondered how Mercer had survived a journey from somewhere in Winterhold's region to Riften on his deathbed, and more importantly to her, why he'd chosen to bring her along to Kynesgrove. Maybe it was the beast blood and her fighting skills. It certainly wasn't for conversation on a long walk, the thought making her smile.

"Bears," she softly spoke, drawing close beside him.

He glanced at her and then the trees. It was rare for her to see him in such full light, most of their encounters having taken place in the cistern or at night. His face was creased from frowning too much, and he looked a true rogue with his barely groomed hair and scruff that had not been shaved in several days.

"You can smell them?" he asked.

"Of course. They're to the east and coming closer. It shouldn't be a problem."

"Their luck," he lowly commented.

If he wasn't going to pick up the pace to lessen the chances of an encounter, neither would she, although the scent was quickly behind them. It occurred to her that maybe Mercer had brought her along for her nose since she was capable of detecting opponents over long distances. She personally hadn't thought much of accompanying him given recent events, but Vex's mouth had dropped open at the news, and Rune had just looked adorably confused.

"Did you know that each person smells different?" she ventured. "Once I smell someone, I'm able to pick out their scent anywhere."

"Can you tell whether it's a person without seeing them?"

"Yes. People are...it's not easy to explain, but yes, I can tell whether a scent belongs to a person or not. You can know a lot about people by how they smell: what they like to eat, where they spend their time, who they've been sleeping with..." He cocked an eyebrow at her, and she shrugged. "I notice a lot of things about people without them realizing it. I knew you were sick before you did."

"Do people leave their scents behind?"

_Suddenly interested in werewolves, are you?_ He hadn't asked questions before, even though she'd expected them, and now she almost felt flattered by his curiosity. To have someone know of her condition and remain so indifferent was a relief. He of all people could probably appreciate its benefits.

"Do you mean if someone sat in a chair and left?" she asked.

"If they walked through a room. Pissed in a corner. Take your pick."

"It depends. Did the seat have a cushion? Did the person bathe recently? Any number of things make a difference, but..." She could only think of Riftweald and how it smelled of him. Sitting on his bed and treating his fevered body had made her all too aware of it. That example felt too intrusive though. "Your cloak," she decided. "When you wrapped me in your cloak, I knew it was yours. If it were in a room, but you weren't, I would still know it was yours and that you'd recently worn it."

He did not respond, and she imagined the wheels in his head turning, archiving the information for later. Perhaps she shouldn't have shared so much, keeping some advantage to herself instead, but she wasn't overly concerned as a humorous thought hit her.

"You know who smells terrible? Maramal. And sometimes he reeks of mead. Makes me wonder."

A smirk tugged at the corner of Mercer's mouth, although maybe the light was playing tricks with her. It was gone almost instantly.

"I suppose some people smell better than others," he commented.

He glanced at her, but she kept her eyes straight ahead, the suggestion of something more evident in his tone. She was tempted to ask, but sealed her lips, again wondering about the details of what had transpired the night he'd carried her home. The feel of his scruff against her face, inhaling him...Divines, she needed to stop thinking about that.

Their journey continued in relative silence, few words passing between them. She was comfortable with the arrangement, and they continued after dark since they were so near their destination. Kynesgrove sat on a small hill with meager farmland, swallowed by pines and dependent upon Steamscorch Mine for its livelihood. Prim had never been to this part of Skyrim before, but favored the place with an eye for rustic comfort. The Braidwood Inn stood proudly against the night sky, a collection of tents and a campfire to its right.

"Do so few people live here?" she asked.

"Mostly miners," Mercer answered, climbing the last few steps to the inn. She was equally happy to be off her feet as they entered and settled at a table. The inn was typically Nordic with a long fire pit running down the center of its pillared common room, and high crossbeams and rafters overhead. Smaller rooms line the room's sides, promising sleeping quarters for weary travelers like themselves. Prim dropped her pack to the floor and basked in the firelight, warm at last.

"Can I help you with anything?" a dark-haired woman yawned.

She came from the counter at the far end of the room, where she'd apparently fallen asleep in a chair. She smelled of charcoal and straw, her dress modest and voice almost reluctant in addressing them. Surely they didn't look too ragged.

"We'd like a room for the night," Mercer stated. "And whatever you're serving."

"You're well past supper time, travelers. It must be almost witching time if not later, but I'll see what I have. The name's Iddra." She lifted a keyring from her belt, and removed one key. "The room's small, but there are two beds. You can put them together or not as you like."

Mercer took the key and set several coins on the table, the woman quickly scooping them up. He didn't look tired, but surely he was. He leaned forward and crossed arms over the tabletop while Prim loosened her hair from a braid. It was a relief for there to be no expectation of conversation after such a long day.

"There's stew," Iddra stated, returning with two bowls. "And bread. Mead too, if you'd like. I could make it hot for you."

"I'll take some," Prim accepted.

"And you, sir?"

"Make it two.'

Mercer set several more coins on the table without looking at the woman, and she eyed him warily as she turned away. A man appeared at the far end of the room, staring a long moment before Iddra hurried to have a word with him. Whatever passed between them, the man considered his guests with a stern expression.

"You won't help by being rude," Prim stated. "These people seem touchy."

"I'm not here to make friends," Mercer dismissed. "And there's always you."

"Is that why I'm here?" she bristled. "To make up for your bad behavior?"

A spoonful of stew paused half-way to Mercer's mouth, his eyes fixed on her through the steam.

"Make no mistake," he glowered. "I don't need your help, but I expect you to be useful."

_Arrogant ass_, she thought, dunking bread into her stew. The food quelled any ill feelings, and when two steaming mugs of mead drew closer, she leaned forward with a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Mercer frowned around his spoon.

"Pay attention, Master Frey. This is how you make friends."

The man's disposition didn't improve as she put on a smile for Iddra.

"Thank you," she beamed. "I know it's late, and I apologize if we haven't been properly gracious. We had a very long walk to get here. This smells wonderful. Is it a local brew?"

"Aye, ma'am," the woman nodded. "We make it here, and buy some from Riften and Windhelm as well. This one here is my own recipe."

"Oh, excellent." Prim raised the mug, looking over the rim at Mercer while she took a sip. The man stared hard as another spoonful of stew reached his mouth. "Mmm. It's good. Not too sweet. I find Black-Briar a bit too heavy on the honey."

"Like the brewing was rushed, and they're making up for lost flavor," Iddra agreed. "I understand, ma'am. I understand." This was too good to be true. Prim wanted to chuckle, but settled for a playful grin. "So what brings you in this late, travelers?"

"Well, we know a few people who might have passed through here. Perhaps you'd remember them? There were three, all dark elves. They're quiet gentlemen, so I don't imagine they drew much attention to themselves."

"Oh, I remember them alright, but there were four. Three men, one woman. She was a dark elf too, but I don't recall their names. They weren't a friendly group. Polite enough, but not friendly. That was...six months ago or so."

"Do you happen...? But it's late, and you'd probably like your rest," Prim gently smiled. "We'll have to chat tomorrow morning. How does that sound?"

"Sounds good, ma'am," the woman returned. "You enjoy your evening."

Iddra departed, tapping the man who was still studying them on the shoulder, and motioning to one of the rooms. He was no doubt her husband, and it was only with reluctance that he followed the woman to bed, the door to their room remaining cracked open. Prim couldn't keep the grin from her face as she indulged in mead, pointedly ignoring Mercer.

"Do you think you're clever?" he asked, voice crisp and very much suggesting that he disagreed.

"No," she dismissed. "But I do think that I have manners and that a little kindness can go a long way, Master Frey. And whatever your reason for bringing me along, I'm ready to turn in."

She finished off the mead, drinking too quickly, yes, but oh well. She stifled a yawn as she stood, one hip resting against the table and hair tumbling down her back. Mercer was lazily running a spoon along the inside of his empty bowl, face too shadowed for her to see. He had the key and took his time polishing off his drink before rising and unlocking their room.

Their traveling packs were quickly dropped on the floor, and the door locked. The room was as small as Iddra had promised, sporting two beds that nearly touched one another in the narrow confines. A table was jammed into one corner with a single chair and wash basin, now joined by discarded boots and armor. Prim needn't have asked why they were sharing a room as she as slid beneath blankets and fur throws. It was no doubt more convenient and safer should anyone hope to sneak up on them, and she didn't mind as she watched Mercer lay on the bed running parallel to hers. If she reached out, she would be able to touch him, brush his hair aside and trace his jawline.

She rolled to face the wall and fell asleep. Outside, it began to snow.


	2. Chapter 2

Brynjolf tested the drawer a second time, just to confirm that it was indeed locked. It was a strange feeling, sitting at Mercer's desk and sorting through possible leads, and each drawer called to him with the possibility of what might lay inside. Unlocking them wasn't the problem. It was Mercer knowing that he'd tampered with the desk, and his curiosity wasn't worth going down that road. There was also the matter of respect. Perhaps they didn't always see eye-to-eye, but Mercer was the guildmaster, and there was no sense prying into the man's affairs.

He read through several scraps of paper, cryptic words hinting at jobs from those too shy or cautious to contact the guild directly. A word in the right ear would get their offer to the nether regions of Riften just as effectively as formal contact.

Brynjolf handed one of the leads to Vex, and sat back, again studying the drawers. He'd often sat here while Gallus leaned over the desk, the man working and glancing up at him with a smile. They'd talked news, weather, theft, religion—anything. He couldn't believe that Karliah had returned after such a long absence and with blood on her hands. Not for the first time, he wondered whether Mercer and Prim would find the woman on their trip, and what the consequence would be. Certainly neither of them would go down without a fight, and Prim was a companion.

But _why_ had Mercer taken her?

Fragments of reason drifted through his mind, incomplete, and perhaps it was better that way. As much as he respected Mercer, he imagined the man's head an unpleasant place to be. Cynicism and harsh practicality were qualities he'd rather not embrace too fully as he recognized them in his boss, and there was also the contempt that came all too easily to the man.

He reached out and tested the bottommost drawer, the only one that he hadn't yet checked. It slid open, and with surprise, he found himself staring at a pile of discarded paper. Information on Goldenglow, he realized. Goldenglow, and Honningbrew, and a map peppered with x's. For a moment, he didn't comprehend what he was seeing, and when realization struck, he stiffened. Just how many places had Mercer searched or had others search in an effort to find Karliah?

"Shit," he mumbled, refolding the map. The entire drawer was a testament to Mercer's work on recent events and his hunt for the woman who'd nearly destroyed the guild, but there was more. Quick fingers located a series of documents that clearly had nothing to do with Karliah. No one was mentioned by name, but their content and organization in a separate pile made him freeze.

"The Companions recently took on a new recruit," he read. "She's already made a name for herself by saving a village from frost wraiths. She owns Breezehome in Whiterun..." He flipped to the next letter, mouth dry. "I've found what you wanted. A bounty was put on a woman's head for stealing from and supposedly killing the king, but it was only circulated in select circles. They didn't want word to get out about the cause of death. They...Shadows take it!" Brynjolf cursed, replacing all of the documents and slamming the drawer shut.

Since when had Mercer taken such an interest in Prim, and why in Oblivion was she lumped in the same drawer with Karliah? So little captured the man's attention these days, most guild jobs never even reaching his desk. It might mean nothing since the master thief was thorough by nature, but Brynjolf's gut twisted.

"Playing king while Mercer's gone?"

He looked up to find Delvin licking jam from his fingers and grinning, a roll in one hand.

"I'm not playing at anything," he sharply replied.

"Oh? And what's got you all worked up? Don't tell me Maven needs something. She's been a real pain in the ass lately."

"I wish it were Maven."

"That bad, huh?" Delvin adopted a more serious expression, gritty voice lowering. "You haven't heard word from Mercer yet, have you? They've only been gone a day."

"No," Brynjolf dismissed. "But don't you find it strange that he took Prim with him?"

"Ah, so that's what it is," Delvin nodded, as though he'd known it all along. "Caught my eye, alright. When was the last time Mercer even did a job? He only handles the real special cases, and with our luck lately, there hasn't been much demand for that. If you're hung up on this little trip, you'd best get your britches straightened. Your girl's been doing a damn fine job proving herself, and it's probably best that Mercer isn't just bitching around the cistern."

"That's exactly my point. Mercer scoffs at almost every job that comes across this desk, but sometimes that certain job comes along."

"Not lately," Delvin ruefully noted.

"Aye, and how many members has he done more with than give the formal speech? He barely spoke a word to the last recruit. The only things he considers worth his time are clients like Maven and now Karliah, who he's obsessed with finding. He was the same way with difficult jobs when gold ran through here like water."

"He was always a picky bastard," Delvin agreed.

"And once he picked a job, he _had_ to win. When something captures his attention, it's never half-way."

"That's...I see what you mean, but Prim can handle herself."

Delvin bit into his roll, and Brynjolf calmly studied the desk once more.

"He could push her to be the best thief in Skyrim," the redhead mused. "But he's never shown concern when someone fails and gets themselves killed or jailed either. She has a lot to learn yet."

"I think you might be reading into this too much, Bryn," Delvin cautioned. "Don't get me wrong. I understand why you're concerned. You've got to admit though, she handles work beautifully, and she hasn't been shy about slapping her success in Mercer's face. If she kept her head down and came to me for jobs, it'd be different, but that's clearly not her way."

No, it wasn't. Brynjolf knew that Delvin had good points, and accepted them. He wouldn't open the offending drawer again, and quickly rose from the guildmaster's chair. The once favored seat hadn't felt welcoming for a very long time.

"If you want a second opinion, Prim's close with Sapphire," Delvin suggested. "Maybe she's said something about Mercer. Sapphire!"

The woman looked up and made her way over to them, eyes dancing between the two men.

"Do you need something?" she asked.

"Just your good advice," Delvin cheerfully replied. "You and Prim are fairly close, aren't you? Lady matters and all that?"

"Lady matters?" Sapphire frowned. "Just what do you want to know?"

"Ignore, Delvin," Brynjolf interrupted. "It's nothing like that."

"We want to know if Prim's said anything about Mercer," Delvin blurted. "You know, like difficult jobs or if he's pushing her too hard. Threatening her. Maybe other things."

"Ah huh," Sapphire drawled, voice flat as she studied the man.

"Eloquent, Delvin," Brynjolf sarcastically sighed.

"Look," Sapphire continued. "I don't know why you're asking, and I'm not sure it's my place to say anything. Fortunately, there's nothing to share. What do you think we do? Sit around and gossip about men all day?" She was definitely taking this the wrong way, but damage control was pointless as the woman plowed ahead. "She talks fondly about all of you, even Mercer, if you must know. I think she has a soft spot for him, even if she complains about him being a bastard. She's determined that he'll admit she's a good thief. Were you expecting something else?"

"No," Brynjolf tried to rectify. "She's told me the same. We were just trying to get a more balanced opinion, and the two of you seem close."

"She...By the nine, I should not tell you this," Sapphire muttered, but she was smiling.

"Out with it, love," Delvin encouraged. "You can't take something like that back."

"She has a name for Mercer when he's scowling for no reason. She uses it to keep herself relaxed when he has her on edge."

"Well?" Delvin pressed.

Sapphire's grin widened.

"Don't you dare let him catch wind of this, but...Mercer muffin."

"Mercer muffin?" Brynjolf repeated.

Maybe talking to Sapphire had been a brilliant idea. The ridiculousness of the name cut through his tension, although he was still uneasy about the entire situation. Mercer chasing Karliah. Karliah chasing Mercer. Prim standing in the middle of it all with little warning that she'd been goading Mercer on the entire time, or maybe she knew it, the reckless lass. If Mercer's interest in her went beyond that...well, he didn't want to think about it.

"We were drinking," Sapphire smiled. "I'm not sure she was being seriousness, but it was worth a good laugh. She has a good sense of humor about the coals Mercer throws at her."

"Muffin," Delvin digested. "He wouldn't take kindly to that."

"I won't tell you some of the names I've heard you called, Delvin Mallory" Sapphire smugly added, sauntering away. Delvin suggested a drink, and Brynjolf accepted, hoping that wherever Prim and Mercer were, the shadows were protecting them.

* * *

Prim heard Mercer rouse from sleep. The bed creaked as he stood, although his feet were silent on the floorboards, further masked by the sound of wind skidding over the inn's roof. She kept her eyes closed, content to wrap the blankets tightly beneath her chin and sigh into the chill air. He would probably force her awake at any moment in his eagerness to be done with this business, but no one touched or reprimanded her. Perhaps he was feeling merciful this morning.

The scraping of wood heralded the opening of the room's single shutter, a gust of cold wind making Prim's eyes snap open.

"Son of a bitch," Mercer cursed, quickly slamming it shut.

"What's wrong?" she asked, sitting up.

"See for yourself."

He stood there in gray pants and a black tunic, smoothing back his hair with a scowl. His boots were on in an instant, but he forwent his armor, marching from the room with a dark cloud over his head. Curious, Prim eased out of bed and cracked the shutter open. Outside, the world was white, wind whipping snowflakes through the air and clouding the landscape beyond. She could discern little, and damn but it was cold. She sealed the shutter and followed Mercer's lead, emerging from their room in pants and a tunic, still wiping sleep from her eyes.

Mercer was at the inn's counter, near the far end of the fire pit, where the man from the night before was feathering logs for the fire. The Nord sported a wild mane of blond hair and a beard, his pants wet as though he'd been out in the snow. There was a younger man as well, red-haired and watching Mercer with hawkish eyes from the shadows. Iddra was preparing food at the counter, and addressing Mercer with reserve.

_I'd better make sure he doesn't offend anyone_, Prim thought, making her way over.

She walked across the room, and noted a collection of locals scattered about the tables, huddled together and chatting while casting curious stares her way. They had bags of belongings with them, making her think them the tent-dwellers from outside, seeking shelter from the storm.

"We usually get one or two of these per season," Iddra was telling Mercer. "It might be done tomorrow or the next day. It's hard to tell. I wouldn't dare go out in it, sir. These storms blanket the whole region. You'd get caught and freeze to death for sure."

"A blizzard, is it?" Prim asked, joining them.

"Aye, ma'am. A right horrid one. You'd best talk some sense into your friend here."

"We'll wait it out," Mercer stated before Prim could respond.

"Well, we'll have plenty of time for our talk this morning," she tried to smile. The thought of being trapped in the inn with the entire village and Mercer was not the most appealing of situations. She leaned against the counter, her stomach growling. "Will breakfast be ready soon?"

"Soon enough. There will be plenty, and plenty of mouths to feed too. We can talk now, if you'd like. What exactly would you like to know about the dark elves?"

She caught Mercer's eyes, and deferred to him, holding her tongue while he spoke.

"Did you overhear why they met the Dunmer woman?"

"Nah, not really. Gold was passed between them though. It looked like the lady was in charge. She was a quiet one. She didn't even drink with the men. Kept to her room most of the time, but she was nice enough and paid well. Very well."

The last bit was accompanied by a telling stare, but Mercer showed no response.

"When did she arrive?" he pressed.

"Two days before they did. I don't recall exactly which direction she came from..."

_Sodding divines_, Prim mentally cursed. If Mercer had bothered being a little more polite, there'd be no need to grease the wheels with money. She said nothing though, choosing to let Mercer bend a little closer to the innkeeper with stern eyes.

"We'll be staying here until the storm is over," he reminded the woman. "We might be inclined to spend more coin on drink if we feel it's worth our while. Did the dark elf come from the north?"

"Through Windhelm," Iddra slowly spoke.

The young, red-haired man had moved closer, standing behind the woman's shoulder and glaring at Mercer.

"Is there a problem, mother?"

"No. Our guests are merely interested in those dark elves that were here. This is my son, Kjeld."

"Good morning," Prim chirped. "Looks like we'll be snowed in together for awhile." The man said nothing, frowning when Mercer showed no response to his threatening demeanor. If only the fool knew just how little Mercer likely thought of him. "Can you tell us anything else about the woman, anything at all?"

"She wore dark armor and had a bow. Seemed sort of angry when she was talking with the men. They only stayed, all four of them together, that one night. Then they left. She headed back toward Windhelm, and the other three went west. I remember so well because it's unusual to see so many dark elves at once."

"That's very helpful," Prim smiled. "Thank you. What do you say, Mercer?" Her attention was on the guildmaster now, her head tilted to meet his gaze. "Shall we relax and wait for breakfast?"

"There isn't anything else to do," he replied, walking away.

Kjeld continued to glare daggers at Mercer's back, and Prim hurried after the man, joining him at a corner table where they could keep an eye on the rest of the room. Strained energy radiated from the master thief, but whether due to the storm or what they'd just learned, she couldn't tell. His gaze had darkened considerably with Iddra's description of the previous guests, and he seemed oblivious to Prim's presence until she spoke.

"It's definitely Karliah, isn't it?"

"Beyond any doubt," he growled. "How much do you know?"

"Enough to understand how serious and personal this is. Delvin and Brynjolf told me what happened to Gallus and the guild. And you," she cautiously added. Did he have a scar where Karliah had shot him? She stared at his tunic in thought. "She was your friend?"

"You could say that," he replied, noncommittal.

"You know, I understand why Brynjolf would want to track her down. She hurt people he cared about and betrayed the guild, but I wonder why you want her dead so badly. She betrayed you too, and Gallus was your friend, and I understand that. I just..." She considered her words carefully, wary of angering the man when she sensed his hackles rising. "I hope you won't hold bluntness against me, Master Frey."

"When have you ever done anything but speak your mind?" he returned, words measured. "It takes more than an observation that I'm colder than Brynjolf to anger me. Please," he sharply drawled. "Share why you think I'm out here in this inn."

"I'm not pretending to know," she explained, surprised by how open he was to hearing her opinion. She was probably stupid for accepting the invitation. "But I wonder whether this is more about the guild or revenge. You didn't kill her the first time around. She nearly killed you." Oh, and the intensity his eyes betrayed at the comment! "So she nearly killed you and escaped, and maybe you're looking to settle the score. And then there's the guild and how she's damaged it. Practicality or principal? Even if she hadn't been involved in Goldenglow, I think you'd be in this inn."

"That's what you think, is it?"

"Yes and no. I think there's more to it than that, but it's none of my business."

He stared into the fire, reflections of flames dancing across his eyes.

"It _is_ none of your business," he affirmed. "You're as bad as Brynjolf used to be. Always fishing for more information than you'd know what to do with."

"Whatever it is," Prim persisted, ignoring his snide comment. "She's got you wound tight. In my experience, men only become this moody when the woman is a former lover or a wanted lover."

Where had that come from? She wanted to hit her head on the table, but didn't back down when he turned his scathing gaze on her.

"Determined to follow your insight with stupidity?" he sneered. "That elf was _not_ my lover."

"Gallus's," she shrugged. "Sure, but I hear the two of you weren't always so distant."

He peered at her in a manner that warned her something was afoot. Had she been digging herself a hole without realizing it? She thought of Riftweald, the Bunkhouse, and a thousand inconsequential details as he rotated in his chair to directly face her. She felt trapped between him and the wall, and itched to be free, although part of her hummed in anticipation. She blamed it on her more wolfish impulses.

"Since you're so talkative," he began. "Perhaps you'd care to explain why you fled a wealthy family in Daggerfall. Surely you didn't want for anything as a young noblewoman in polite society. Now you're living with thieves in a sewer."

"And that's your business, is it?" she parried.

"I'm making it my business, and I'd watch your tongue. We might not be in the cistern, but I'm still your guildmaster."

"Master Frey," she spoke, smiling despite her reservations. "We're snowed in. I'm hungry, and you of all people are lecturing me on proper behavior?"

"Snowed in," he emphasized. "And I've got nothing but time."

Was that a statement or a threat? She couldn't tell, but found herself almost content despite his scrutiny. Potatoes were being thrown into kettles with onions and rosemary, followed by the fat that Kjeld was trimming from pig hocks. At least they would eat well during their captivity, and Mercer didn't seem nearly as frustrated as a moment ago.

"I'll answer your questions if you answer mine," she stated. "How's that sound?"

"I'm not promising you anything," he gruffly returned.

"Alright. No promises, but an equal exchange of sorts," she amended.

"Agreeable," he allowed. "Daggerfall."

"Daggerfall," she exhaled.

And where did she start with that topic? Perhaps the very beginning was best, when her grandmother had arrived there and married a Breton noble, earning herself a title and a large manor in the city's opulent hub. Then came a daughter, lovely and sought after by many at court until a man finally caught her eye. There was a marriage and affairs, and rumors of something worse. The grandmother talked of horrors and creatures in the dark—a monster that would consume her, making everyone believe her old and feeble-minded. That's what everyone had thought until the nightmares started, the woman's daughter having visions and fevers, and in turn talking gibberish to her own daughter until the girl feared nightfall, when it was always worst.

Prim told the story with detachment, rarely referring to the young girl as herself, as if it had happened to someone else, not her. She could still imagine a monstrous voice calling to her, urging her to open the window and jump. The shadow's eyes had glowed and laughed at her, chasing her whenever her mother proved resistant. Resistance was all they had, but the grandmother eventually succumbed. The woman died screaming about a curse, no cause determined except old age. Prim's mother had not been so lucky. Between the king's fickle brutality and nightmares, she had finally chosen to jump from a tower.

"It was easy to ignore most days," Prim intoned. "Daggerfall was a beautiful city. There were parties and handsome young men. My father insisted on tutors and tried to keep me distracted from mother when she started getting worse. Whole weeks went by without any trouble, and then the creature would come back and walk by my door. Sometimes it would just stand behind my mother, even if no one else could see it. Then it would leave again, and with the politics at court, you couldn't just refuse to move on. My father was implicated in trying to assassinate the king. We were all in danger."

Mercer listened stoically, eating his breakfast and showing little response. Prim shoveled several spoonfuls of food into her mouth, numb but mostly hardened. She hadn't told this much of her story to anyone except Kodlak, and that had been more a spewing of anecdotes that the man had pieced together himself, divines bless him.

"Once my mother died, I was next," she continued. "The creature had rarely bothered me personally, but it hadn't bothered my mother until grandmother died either. So I ran. I left Daggerfall and never looked back. I went to Cyrodiil first, then came to Skyrim."

"And the creature?" Mercer queried, studying a slice of potato.

"Dead." She nailed the word to the table. "The Arcane University was able to bind it into a physical form so that I could kill it. I spat on its corpse too. There wasn't enough of it left for even the crows after I was done." Mercer's gaze shifted, assessing at the venom in her voice. "I didn't know where to go after that. I wasn't going back to Daggerfall, and my grandmother had originally come from Skyrim, so here I am."

"Bleaksnow," he mused.

"I'm not surprised you already know."

"That doesn't explain your little incident with Daggerfall's king."

"If I was already fleeing for my life, why not teach the bastard a lesson? My father was as good as dead because of him, and he...He was just evil," she frowned, shaking her head. "He loved that damned pendant more than anything, so I took it."

"It would fetch a remarkable price," Mercer considered. "And with a story like that, you'd easily find a buyer. Collectors love when goods come with blood and tragedy."

He spoke so flatly, as if he were describing his fork, and Prim would have none of it. The pendant was not for sale, now or ever. It was the only item she'd brought from Daggerfall, and had nearly been lost several times in her journey.

"I'll never sell it," she told him. "Isn't there anything you keep just because it means something to you? Something you've stolen and couldn't sell? It's more than your turn now," she reminded him.

A smirk touched his lips.

"Yes."

Yes? That was it? She glowered, but it had no effect on him.

"Word of advice," he spoke. "Be more specific in your guidelines before upholding your end of a bargain." She opened her mouth to protest, just as he leaned in closer. "I've stolen treasure you've only heard about in stories. Most of it's gone. I even stole the Bleaksnow family heirlooms when the jarl confiscated and locked them away for the day a relative claimed them. They're all gone now," he swiftly added. "Don't waste your time asking."

"You're insufferable," Prim muttered. "...I don't know why I ended up in Riften of all places. There's still probably a bounty on my head somewhere out there. Don't tell Maul or he'll have me shipped off in a heartbeat."

"It got cleared," Mercer stated.

She froze, staring at him in shock. What could he possibly know about that?

"What are you talking about?"

"The change in rulers eventually swept it under the rug. The new king had no interest in avenging his predecessor, and any cut-throat worth their gold knew it." He looked smug, and Prim was left speechless. "You don't know, do you?" he queried, sounding perversely pleased.

"Know what?"

"That you killed the king. He died from a blow to the back of the head."

She paled, the blood slowing in her veins. Why the news shocked her so, she didn't know, but the unexpected information left her floundering. She hadn't meant to kill anyone—would have been horrified by the mere suggestion if she'd known at the time. Now though? She calmed herself, thinking about what she'd been through since leaving Daggerfall and how she'd learned to fight and protect herself. The Companions had furthered her skills considerably, but she'd survived bandits and all manner of dangers on the road even before that. Her hands were far from unstained.

"Good riddance," she dully spoke. "Too bad he didn't know it was me."

Mercer stared at her for a moment before a dark chuckle worked up his throat, quickly ending as he took a long gulp of mead. Divines, but he was attractive like this, out of armor and lounging in the firelight. Had he always been this attractive? Part of Prim whispered yes, knowing it since the day he'd first challenged her to prove her worth. She sighed and listened to the wind outside, smiling as a small child bungled around the tables, kicking a wicker ball. The boy's flushed features found hers, a toothy grin begging her to play with him since the other adults were being so very serious about the storm.

_Why not? _

She kicked the ball about with him, laughing as the locals swept into a more jovial mood and struck up a lute. There was food and drink, and except for the wind, the storm didn't feel overly burdensome. There was nothing they could do about the situation but grin and bear it, and so they chatted and ate, people dozing off at tables, and once the rooms were filled, setting up mats on the floor.

"Why is your husband so grumpy?" the boy eventually asked.

Prim caught the ball and held it on her lap, the child joining her as she glanced to where Mercer sat, alone and silent. His eyes were half-closed, no on daring to approach him. With a smile, she ruffled the boy's hair and whispered in his ear.

"He's not my husband, and he's not so bad."

But come morning, if the blizzard hadn't lifted, the man might be far less tolerable. She watched him retire early, and eventually joined him, the room dark when she entered. They could only wait and see what morning brought.

* * *

**Author's note**: This scene has been in my head for awhile now, and I had to get it out. I actually have the entirety of everything I'd like to write about Prim and Mercer planned out in my head. It's just a matter of writing it down. I don't plan to rush anything, of course. My thanks to all of you who have been reading along.


	3. Chapter 3

The storm hadn't lifted. Prim knew as much without opening her eyes, for if it had, surely Mercer would not be shaving. She listened to his razor swish in the wash basin, and then the scratch of it across his chin. The repetitive sound was soothing as she laid on back, hair curled around and tickling her neck. Oh, the bliss of a lazy morning. She breathed deeply and rolled onto her side, reveling in the chance to sleep in on a dreary day, and enjoying the smell of roasting gourds that seeped in from the common room.

When she told Brynjolf that she and Mercer had been snowed in together, he would be amazed to see both of them unscathed.

She opened her eyes and angled herself so that she could see beyond the foot of her bed. Mercer stood at the table, head tilted back as he shaved the underside of his chin. She stared at the razor as if mesmerized, watching it move this way and that, his head moving, fingers turning the blade. She could imagine him in his bedroom at Riftweald, shaving in the silence of the manor, and was struck by how mundane the task was. Had one of his lovers ever laid like this, just watching him? Not inside Riftweald, she was sure, but there was much of his past she didn't know. Mentioning Karliah as his lover had, of course, been a bit of taunting on her part, but now she wondered if there was any truth to the matter.

"How bad is it outside?" she asked.

"Still snowing."

"At least this is a comfortable place to be stranded," she thought aloud. "I don't know why you're up so early when there's nothing to do."

He didn't answer, but turned to face her while swishing the razor in water. She liked him better with a bit of scruff, and inwardly smiled at seeing only half of his face shaved. He was not someone women would naturally label a handsome catch, true, but her gaze lingered on his every movement.

"While you were sleeping," he critically noted, "I spoke with Draynea."

"And who's that?"

"A Dunmer mage working for the mine. She was paying closer attention than the others when so many of her kind came out of the night. Karliah spoke with her about surviving the cold above Windhelm. Our dear elf apparently went to Morrowind for two decades or so before returning to Skyrim, and has kept to the northern reaches every since."

"What in Oblivion has she been doing for so many years? That's a long time to wait."

"A good question," he murmured. "She was always very patient."

Patient wasn't the right word. What could drive someone to return for vengeance after so many years of waiting? Could the woman's hate for Mercer truly be that deep? Prim sensed that he was just as determined, his scorn alone sharp enough to cut.

"You mean for us to go after her," she realized. "That's why you said we might be gone for a week or more. We're going north when the snow clears."

"Now that I know where she is, it's time this ended. She won't crawl away a second time."

Prim yawned and remained silent while Mercer finished shaving. He ran a hand over his smooth face and then through his hair, his gaze remaining fixed on the wall for what felt like an eternity to her mind. Without speaking, he finally returned to sit on the edge of his bed. His knees brushed her blankets, his mood calm but ill-content. She tapped one of his knees with a finger, drawing his attention to her face.

"I haven't forgotten about last night," she reminded him. "We have nothing but time, right? Tell me where you're from."

For a moment, she thought he wouldn't answer. He seemed much more interested in watching her fingers tap against the bed frame, a firm stare stopping her. She immediately withdrew her hand beneath the blankets.

"A nowhere town in High Rock," he answered. "Most Bretons have never heard of it."

"Hmm," she mused. "Minor nobility or peasantry?"

"I didn't leave so their obsession with titles could follow me," he scowled.

"Funny, you like being called Master Frey." His level stare made her grin. "I don't give one coin whether you're nobility or not," she quickly continued. "I was just curious. I'm guessing you left young. I saw a lot of townspeople come to Daggerfall to seek work or fortune. There were a lot of thieves too," she recalled. Back then, they had frightened her, her father's stories of kidnappings and thefts-turned-murder deeply ingrained in her imagination.

"I didn't stay in High Rock long," he allowed, his voice weighing each word. "As soon as I could fend for myself, I left."

"And you ended up in Skyrim," she concluded.

"Cyrodiil first. Then Skyrim. I've been here most of my life."

"And I bet you thieved your way across all three provinces." But he could have been so many other things, or so it seemed to her. She wanted to know how long he'd been stealing, and where he'd began, but his noncommittal expression hardly invited prying questions. "Tell me about joining the guild," she suggested. "Was it really as magnificent as Delvin says it was?"

He looked weary of her questions, but she blinked up at him, refusing to be intimidated. His gaze drifted sideways toward the door.

"I can't deal with your curiosity on an empty stomach," he grumbled, shifting.

She reached out and placed a palm firmly atop his left thigh, bidding him not to rise. Her hand remained pressed there against the fabric of his pants, fingertips resting gingerly on his leg. He stared at the offending limb, and followed it to her mouth.

"Tell me about it, and I'll rein my tongue in for the rest of the day," she promised.

"You're a worse liar than a thief," he critiqued. "But..." His hand closed over hers, voice dropping to a lower octave. "I'm holding you to that." He lifted and placed her hand back where it belonged on her bed, and then leaned forward to rest elbows across his knees. "Why are you so interested anyway?"

"Don't even try to turn the conversation around," she chided, but there was a note of genuine interest in his voice that gave her pause "It can't be surprising that I'm interested," she considered. "I don't think you've said one thing about your past since we met."

"Never needed to."

"The guild," she reiterated.

"The guild," he weighed, appraising her. "It was a thief's paradise. Gold. Treasure. Our reputation grew until we had the respect of the original guild in Cyrodiil. We modeled ourselves on it—borrowed its tenants like a sacred text. There were already thieves living in the Ratway when we arrived, of course. It's always been a place for the unwanted, but we turned them into an organization. Failure and death weeded out the weakest ones. Wealth attracted replacements. There isn't much else to tell," Mercer dismissed. "Delvin didn't lie. The cistern was a kingdom unto itself." He titled his head, caught her studious expression, and gave a humorless snort. "You're not satisfied."

"Not even close. By 'we', you mean Gallus, yourself, and Karliah? You started it?"

"Gallus and I founded the guild."

"So where'd Karliah come from?"

"Cyrodiil," he lowly stated. "She came from the guild in Cyrodiil."

"From what I've heard around the cistern, it sounds like everything went well until she ruined it."

"Is that what Brynjolf's been filling your head with?" he asked with contempt. "That the guild was a happy family until one person didn't play by the rules? There were friendships, partners, lovers, you name it, but our kingdom was fed by greed. By convenience," he emphasized, gaze pinning her to the bed. "An opportunity presented itself, and just like thieves, guild members took advantage of it. Karliah didn't make Titus try to kill me and Delvin, or stop us from breaking friends out of jail when jobs went wrong. Thieves, you see, don't play by the rules. Karliah thought devotion changed that, but her idea of loyalty to something higher than just the guild was as misguided as it was tainted. If we'd been smarter..." He broke off with a sneer, his gaze pinning Prim to the bed. "Unbelievable."

The last word, charged with condescension, called a fire to life, his stormy eyes beckoning her to throw down a challenge.

"Yet when Vex didn't come back from Goldenglow like expected, Delvin and Tonilia looked for her!" Prim didn't mean to speak with such vehemence, but the words flew from her mouth. "And when I told Vekel about maybe exploring the Ratway Warrens, he talked me out of it. Why? Because he thought I'd get hurt, and wasn't it you that risked prison by going back and saving Brynjolf when he couldn't scale a wall? You talk like there's nothing more to the guild than gold."

She was sitting up now—couldn't argue with him properly when laying down—and he returned her fiery gaze with one of his own. His condemning tone rattled her, chilling her more than Skyrim's winter ever had.

"Of course there's more to the guild," he scowled. "There's _always_ more, but if you..." His face tightened, a look of exasperation clouding his features. "You've learned nothing. If you died on a job, do you think a thief would go back to bury you or for your purse? How many thieves have you _not_ heard about because we swept their memory out the door, or because when the gold slowed, they left with it? Foolish..."

"I know. I know," she interrupted. She did not want to argue with him. "Cynric has murdered people for money. Vex left Vipir behind when that one job went wrong, but...but it's holding together, isn't it? Things are bad, but people did stay, and we help each other."

She shook her head, unable to meet his gaze lest his fire reignite her own. This was not how she wanted to spend her morning, and she certainly hadn't meant to make a battle of it. Her smile was one of chagrin as she fiddled with the corner of a blanket, hair tumbling over her shoulders.

"No wonder Brynjolf likes you so much," Mercer growled, standing. "Gallus would have taken you under his wing in a heartbeat."

"Master Frey? I understand what you're saying, but if there was so little to the guild, I wouldn't be here. I'm not an idiot, despite what you might think. I know scratching the surface will get dirt under my nails, but it's like that everywhere. I don't mind."

He considered her for a long moment before sitting at the table. She hung in the silence, watching him and breathing as the tension between them dissipated.

"You're no idiot," he quietly commented.

She stood with a sigh, and drew closer to him. He looked up at her in question, an internal debate mounting in her head as she wondered just what she was planning to do. She paused, not long, but enough to hint at her indecision before collecting her boots from beside his chair.

"I need to eat something," she stated. "Do you want...?" A rumble atop the roof made her jump, the sound building and then crashing against the outside wall. "Akatosh's mercy, what was that?"

"Snow," he dismissed. "It's getting heavy and dragging itself off the roof."

A shout from the common room had Prim exiting the room, relieved to no longer be boxed in with Mercer. She'd ruined the morning mood alright, and was annoyed with both herself and him as she surveyed the collection of locals. Iddra was helping her husband shrug on a fur overcoat while her son carried wooden shovels from the storage room. Two additional men were dressing for the weather as well, others converging on the fire pit to clean what remained of a hog and clean breakfast dishes. Prim joined the gathering, catching Iddra's eye.

"Oh, you're awake," the woman greeted.

"What's going on?"

"Part of the roof collapsed," her husband stated. "I knew we needed thicker thatch after that last storm."

Iddra finished fastening his coat, and hurried over to Prim.

"You let them worry about it," she waved. "It was naught but a small bit of roof, and we've closed the room off. They'll shovel the snow clear. Here. There's enough breakfast left for you and your friend."

Prim accepted a tray of roasted meat and bread, but had no wish to be closed in with Mercer again so soon. He probably needed the space as well, unaccustomed to having someone foist conversation on him as constantly as she was. _We could sit in silence. Relax._ She thought of their journey, the comfortable quiet, and the times before, when his presence had on occasion even soothed her. But after their little debate? Perhaps it was best to let the moment pass into nothing.

"I can help," she told Iddra. "If not with the roof, then you could probably use extra hands to clear a way to the stable and check on the animals."

"Ah, there's no need for that," the woman insisted with a smile. "We can..."

"Let her help, mother," Kjeld the younger spoke, voice devoid of warmth. "Everyone else is doing their share. Let our guests do theirs." His mother cast a reproving look in his direction, but Prim had plenty of energy for a smile.

"Consider it done. I'll be right back."

Mercer was cleaning his dwarven sword when she entered, lazily polishing the hilt. She set the tray of food on the table, and folded a slice of bread into her mouth, chewing while strapping on her armor. Her cloak soon overlaid the leather, its hood framing her face.

"I'm going to help with the roof," she informed him. "Save me some meat."

She followed the others outside into air still thick with snow. The wind, at least, had died down, leaving the world peaceful and desolate beneath a layer of white. The tented area was now flattened, and the village's stable barricaded in snow. There was no escaping a sense of confinement—complete isolation from the rest of Skyrim—for even though the snowfall had lessened, the sheer amount already on the ground would still many a traveling boot.

_Damn, it will be a long journey north._

"Where's your friend?" Kjeld asked.

"Resting," she dismissed, whereupon the man muttered something unpleasant about the kind of men who sent woman to do their labor.

Prim slid hands into gloves and wrapped a scarf around her lower face, both borrowed from Iddra for the work ahead, and no doubt it would take a good portion of the morning. They split the tasks. Iddra's husband and two others would shovel a path to the stable and take care of the animals while Kjeld and Prim took to the roof with their nimble legs. The eldest member of the group placed and held a ladder against the inn for them, and Prim was the first one up it. The angled roof required caution as she crawled onto it, testing the thatch beneath her and satisfied that she wouldn't fall through, not on this section of roof at least.

"The weak section is over there,"Kjeld pointed.

They carefully plodded through the snow, their surroundings abnormally quiet to Prim's ears. The birds and other animals had taken shelter from the weather as well it seemed, and the usual scents that carried so well in winter were missing as frigid air burned down her nostrils. The snowfall was probably even thicker further north, where mountains rose above Windhelm, making Mercer the most stubborn man alive to insist on traveling in that direction. She wondered whether he might delay their plans as she crept closer to the roof's crest, following Kjeld step for step. Probably not.

They eased forward along the inn's spine to avoid the hole she could now clearly see, the spot small and inconsequential, but threatening to widen. It sat above one of the inn's bedrooms, a dark splotch amid white. Kjeld pointed with his shovel, and pressed the tip into the snow ahead of them.

"The thatch gets thinner here," he stated. "Work around the edge and clear as much as you can. I've got the far side. Don't put too much force on the shovel."

He slid around the hole, and both of them immediately set to work, shoveling from the inn's crest toward the edge of the roof. Prim's muscles quickly warmed, making the cold more bearable, even as her cheeks yearned to be inside near the fire. It was slow work. Tedious. But she had a beautiful view of the Eastmarch and its pine forests. She could see the others digging toward and clearing the stable doorway, and beyond them, a rocky path leading upward to the mine.

"Watch yourself!" Kjeld barked when her foot slid too near the hole.

She withdrew a few steps, and tossed her last shovelful of snow over the edge. She was sweating now, and shivered against the chill aftereffect of standing still for even a moment.

"Are the others done?" he asked, gripping the crest and moving in her direction.

"Looks like it."

She waited for him while studying the mining path, thinking the pines beautiful in their winter finery. It'd been awhile since she'd enjoyed such a high vantage point. She inhaled deeply, ignoring whatever Kjeld was saying as her nostrils flared. A dank scent that whispered of danger whisked by her nose, gone just as quickly as it'd come.

_Trolls_, she thought, but the land did not otherwise hint at their presence. The smell had perhaps been carried from afar.

"Are you listening?" Kjeld griped. "You...Shit!"

Prim's feet were kicked out from under her as a body collided with her legs. She flailed and fell, sliding down the roof in a flurry of snow. Her hands grappled for a hold, but the thatch was too difficult to grip through the gloves, leaving her helplessly nearing the edge and bumping into her companion the entire way. Divines, but she had not survived so much in life to die falling off a roof. She dug her feet in and laid flat on her stomach, bracing herself against the roof and stopping just shy of edge.

"Kjeld!" she shouted, peering over her shoulder.

The man clung halfway over the edge, face red from strain as he grappled with the thatch. She tore her gloves free and lowered herself toward him, reaching out with one hand. He clasped onto it, and with her help, dragged himself back to safety. Both of them were left laying against the roof and panting, snow filling the hoods of their cloaks.

"For the love of Mara," he gasped.

"You scared the shit out of me," Prim muttered.

They met eyes and burst out laughing for reasons that defied explanation. The sudden death of tension perhaps? The absurdity of her having survived assassins only to nearly fall off a roof? Her laugh ended with a gentle huff, and she winced as she drew into a sitting position.

"Let's get inside," she smiled, first for the ladder again.

The man below paced anxiously as she appeared, clapping his hands in delight and thanking the gods that they were both alright. It was such a simple feeling to be with these people, and Prim suddenly appreciated their presence as she hadn't the day before. She'd barely stepped onto solid ground before the man ushered her inside and began telling his version of events.

"You should have seen Kjeld's legs kicking over the edge," he proclaimed.

"I stopped myself," Kjeld defended, frowning, although he didn't seem genuinely cross. Prim sat beside him on the edge of the fire pit as Iddra dispensed hot mead, and listened to the father relay how well the animals were faring. The noise was a gentle hum as she sipped at her drink, suddenly wondering what Mercer was up to and whether she should mention the trolls. She wouldn't inform and cause concern among the locals, and didn't think it necessary if the master thief acted as an extra set of eyes and ears.

She glanced around, and spotted him sitting at the far end of the fire, his booted feet propped on the pit's edge and a book on his lap. He wasn't reading though. Not a single page turned while she watched him, although he fingered the corner of one.

"Thank you for your help," Kjeld was saying.

He had followed her line of sight to Mercer, and a frown quickly overtook his features. _Just what I need_, Prim thought. _Two easily irritated men. _

"You're welcome," she smiled, diverting him. "You probably thought I'd be useless," she teased, laughing when he floundered in protest. "It's fine," she assured, rising. "I've got to get out of this wet clothing and armor. Watch my mead, will you?"

"Do you have dry clothing, ma'am?" Iddra asked, refilling her mug without bidding.

"Oh...well, no, but I'm mostly dry under the armor."

Iddra would have none of it, and guided her toward a side room, insisting on lending her a set of clothing until her own had dried. Prim offered little protest as she glanced once again to Mercer, sporting a grin and catching his eye before Iddra shut a door behind them. She was probably going to be put in a dress. It had been a long time since she'd worn one of those.

* * *

Mercer read the sentence five times before giving up. The book was old and worn, borrowed from a meager collection stacked in the inn's storage room, where dampness had damaged the leather binding. They were probably the forgotten belongings of passing travelers, collected and stored, but little used by the people of Kynesgrove. The child had brought him one, quite insistent on proving his ability to read by sounding out the title: Lost Fables. Mercer had little interest in the topic, and although legends sometimes held clues to lost treasure, today, waiting for the infernal storm to lift, his patience was quickly waning. He wanted out of this damned inn.

The book lay forgotten as he stretched his feet out toward the fire, heels resting against the pit's rim. No one wandered too close or attempted conversation, except of course, the child. The boy's eyes sparkled with the naivety of youth, not yet jaded or wise enough to be cynical of others. A ball rolled beneath Mercer's legs, and the boy crawled after it, quickly reprimanded by the mother for bothering their kind guest. He scoffed at her word choice, well aware of her rigid posture as she ushered the child away.

Two days in this place, snowed in and bested by the elements, all while Karliah waited so near for death by his hand. His fists clenched, jaw set. He would have her head this time—would watch her blood seep across stone and earth, sending her to precious Gallus. If Gallus had been the one to break their pact, no doubt her rush to condemnation would have been slower. He could imagine her justifying the man's actions, frantic to reconcile him with the daedra whose feet she was so found of kissing. Or maybe, he darkly considered, she would have been willing to betray her guardian for Gallus's sake.

Perhaps he would throw the book in the fire and watch it burn.

"You're making it sound far more exciting than it was."

His focus shifted at the sound of Prim's voice. She had returned with the others, cheeks red and hair damp. The woman stomped snow from her boots, and grinned as Kjeld said something to her, twirling her cloak off and throwing it over a chair. Mercer's face remained angled toward the book on his lap, but he watched her from the corner of his eye.

_As if there's anything else to do in this place_, he thought.

Their conversation from the night before and this morning had occupied him throughout her absence, a welcomed break from the constant awareness of Karliah that chafed against him. Memories were there for contemplation, drug from the crypt by the dark elf's return, but he'd dusted them off and neatly shelved them again like old friends—hadn't intended to study their familiar pages until _she _had started asking questions. Her eyes were almost as bright as the child's as she chatted with the locals, a mockery of what her hands had done in life.

She hadn't noticed him yet, and it irritated him. He stared at the book, and when he next looked up, she was being led away by the innkeeper's wife, whatever her name was.

"I'm fine," Prim laughed, pretending to fight the woman. "I'm..." Her gaze met his, a playful smile itching up her face, and then she was gone, into another room. He closed the book sharply, and reeled in his legs.

"Your wife's pretty, sir," a small voice chirped.

The boy was beside him, smiling and waiting for a response.

"She's not my wife," Mercer grunted.

"That can't be true. You sleep in the same room. Mommies and daddies sleep in the same room. That makes her your wife."

He wasn't about to argue with such simplistic reasoning, and gave the child a terse expression, hoping to send him scurrying. Instead, the little rascal took a step closer, frowning.

"She must love you lots to put up with your grumpiness."

"Do I look like I want company?" Mercer drawled.

"I don't know. Do you?"

Of course sarcasm was lost on the tiresome boy, but the nuisance was soon displaced by a larger, angrier boy. Mercer didn't hide the complete indifference that he felt for Kjeld, wholly unaffected by the youth's puffed up chest and stern expression. The whelp's attempts at intimidation weren't worth his attention let alone rising from his chair. He eyed the young man with boredom.

"You should be ashamed of yourself," Kjeld declared. "Sending a woman out in a storm to do the work of a man. She nearly fell off the roof."

"Not the story I just heard," Mercer quipped.

"It should have been you out there. I don't know how men treat their women where you're from, but..."

"Oh, that's rich," he sharply smirked. "Maybe you should tell _her_ about your feelings on the matter. She'll be flattered to be reminded of her place." Then, with a touch of disdain, he noted the tensing of the man's muscles. The boy was too brash for his own good. "Don't start anything you can't finish," he warned. "I'm sure your mother likes your head where it is."

The man's face reddened in anger. Mercer didn't give a damn, although the nearby child obviously did. The boy scampered from view with urgency.

"She could have fallen helping me. Do you think nothing of that?" Kjeld demanded.

"Where's my mead?" Prim's voice loudly sounded.

The woman was walking toward them, eyes questioning as they met Mercer's. She had traded her armor for a blue dress, long and flowing, and overload by a worn surcoat to fight the cold. Hair tumbled about her shoulders, only half dry as it clung to her neck and dripped water down her throat. His eyes traced the swell of her breasts before sweeping lower to her hips. He had never seen her in a dress, and the fitted fabric revealed so much more than her usual pants and tunic. Her outline hadn't been this visible since that day in the Bunkhouse.

"Am I interrupting something?" she queried.

"No."

"We were having a discussion," Kjeld countered.

"Oh?" Her smile was clearly forced, but she played it well enough. Mercer wasn't entirely sure what she was up to as she sauntered closer and then behind him. His eyebrows rose when she draped an arm over his shoulder, her hand resting gently against his chest. Her body grazed the back of his head, her every movement his to know in such close proximity. "Well, you two can get back to it soon," she said. "How are you feeling? Better, I hope."

The words were soft and directed toward him. Did she intend for him to play along with this little charade? – Thinking perhaps, that it would ward off Kjeld? He considered tossing her hand aside just to offend the young man, but her other hand was brushing his hair back, fingertips sliding down behind his ear. He doubted that anyone had ever touched him there in his life, and certainly not with such tenderness. No one had touched him this gently in a very long time.

"I'm fine," he gruffly answered.

"Good."

He could hear the smile in her voice, the little minx. Her lips pressed against the top of his head in a quick kiss. Innocent. Chaste. She was none of those things, and if she'd tried playing this game without an audience, in the cistern perhaps, at his desk while the others slept, or maybe in Riftweald, where he could turn her around and teach her a lesson for intruding...

Her hands slid away, and Kjeld held his tongue while retrieving her mead. She sat beside Mercer, cradling the drink and asking Iddra to bring one for him as well. He didn't need nor want it, but once in his hands, there was nothing to do but drink. He silently toasted the inn to Oblivion, and Prim too. She seemed to have already forgotten about her recent actions, but the nerves behind his ear hadn't.

"So," she hummed. "What was that about?"

"Women don't belong on roofs."

"That's what had you two so tense?" Her frown was less angry and more confused.

"The idiot thought you should be the one sitting by the fire."

"Oh," she guffawed, shaking her head. "He's lucky I didn't hear that."

She lifted her legs toward the fire pit, stopped, and shifted them about is if unsure what to do with them. Her boots were gone, bare feet pale against the stone floor. She finally crossed them, very prim and ladylike, and he shot her a bemused expression.

"To Oblivion with it," she huffed, sweeping them up to the fire pit. "Old habits. I haven't worn a dress in...well, since I left Daggerfall. I had silks and brocades, you know." She gave a humorless smile and stared into the flames. "I wore pants for climbing. Mother would have died from shame if she'd known I enjoyed scaling trees and buildings. It felt good to be on the roof, which reminds me..." Her gaze hardened in thought, a tongue moistening her chapped lips. "I smelled trolls."

"Is that unusual?" he queried. "They're all over the place out here. Even I smell them before I see them."

"They do smell pretty terrible. It's not unusual, I guess, but I _only_ smelled trolls. The storm smothered almost everything else, even the scent of the pine trees. They could be very close, and not just one. I think we should be careful."

"Do they know?" he asked, staring at the locals. They were draping wet clothing to dry and discussing what to do about the hole in the roof.

"No," she answered. "I don't want to scare them when it could be nothing. And I definitely don't want to mention how I know. I've seen what happens when villages suspect someone."

Her expression flattened, unreadable, and her fingers rubbed against her mug as though anxious. Mercer could guess the cause, having only seen one other werewolf in life, and it had already been dead. The villagers had mounted its head on a stake near the road as a warning to others, and this when the creature had probably been one of their own at some point.

"You really don't care, do you?" Prim quietly asked, not looking at him.

"About that?" he questioned. "Hardly. But if you ever attack me, I'll skin and use you as a rug."

"Some go feral. They lose themselves. I've seen them, caged up by the Silver Hand." That she still wasn't looking up did not go unnoticed, as though she was partly ashamed of her secret. He found that hard to believe, and when she raised her eyes, they were stoically fixed. "I didn't think you would care," she stated. "Maybe the others, but not you. I didn't plan on you finding out though," she admitted. "Do you think the rest of the guild would care?"

"Vipir would piss himself. A werewolf tried to eat him once."

"Damn," she muttered.

He decided to leave it at that. Did he think the rest of the guild would care? Not as much as she feared, especially when they realized how advantageous her heightened senses might be on jobs. She wasn't exactly chomping at the bit to eat anyone, although he honestly hadn't thought werewolves to be capable of the control she exerted. The guild would, in short, deal with it, but she didn't need to know that.

"Maybe I'll tell Brynjolf," she quietly mused. "He would understand."

"He doesn't know?"

"Not yet, but I've been meaning to tell him."

Her gut instinct was right. Brynjolf _would_ understand, and Mercer was surprised that she was questioning herself so severely over the matter. Maybe the man's blasted opinion mattered so much to her that she irrationally feared his reaction. Mercer tossed the book onto the rim of the fire pit, unable to even think about reading anymore.

"Lost Fables," Prim absently read. "I've read this one. I always liked the story about Oblivion's lady, the one who was supposedly a Blade." Her smile was distant. "You know, Mercer, I'd really like to ask more questions, but I promised to control myself today, didn't I?" She playfully scowled, leaning her head against the chair so that her hair tumbled over the back. "That means the only thing to do is drink."

"Cheers," he droned, unenthusiastic.

She chuckled, head lulling to the side as she watched him. Her eyes gleamed with contentment, and that their focus should be him made him stare back, studying the subtleties of her expression. Her smile was almost lazy, her muscles relaxed. The crease above the right side of her mouth said her smile was often lopsided, and her neck was bent back, fully exposed. It was a vulnerable position. Brynjolf said that she trusted him, but just how deeply had the man intended the comment to be taken? Foolish woman.

"What?" she questioned, confusion coloring her tone. He looked away without answering, preferring the silence in which they now sat. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine himself in Riftweald, alone in the basement, encircled by stone, only now, when he opened his eyes, there was no wall to greet him. Prim was there, holding her tongue, although the smirk threatening her lips at his gaze spoke volumes about just how eager she would be to break the silence.

A man burst through the inn's door with a smile, voice booming.

"The snow just stopped. We'll probably get some more tonight, but it's clearing."

"I guess we'll be leaving soon," Prim stated.

"Not soon enough," Mercer muttered under his breath.

She didn't hear him, her attention focused on the lute that one of the other women had produced. Great. Just what he needed. He listened as a soft tune was set, idly watching Kjeld take Prim's hand to teach her a local dance, the slow steps and turns drawing others to join. The beat soon increased, and people stomped boots against the floor while the women alone spun about, turning each other and laughing. The opening of a new cask furthered the revelry, which was quickly turning into a full celebration. Spirits were high with the storm's passing, although when he stepped outside, the gray sky promised lingering spurts.

Mercer stood outside in the cold, taking his time before returning to the festivities. He skirted the edges of the group and collected his book, thinking that perhaps there was a more suitable option in the storeroom. His muscles were tense, mood darkening with the promise of freedom so close yet still out of reach. Prim couldn't have been less affected, the woman actually jumping onto the fire pit's rim and flouncing about, dangerously close to the flames while people cheered. The mug she held sloshed mead onto stone and into the fire, sparking bursts of flame through which he watched her.

He paused, book in hand, and leaned against the wall. It would serve her right to get a little singed for such foolishness, but her nimble feet were quick to recover, her hair fanning outward as she made her way around the pit. She didn't notice him, and just as well. He was soon in the storage room, and picking through the available books. That someone was trying to sneak into the room behind him did not go unnoticed.

"And what do you think you're doing?" he demanded, glancing at the nuisance.

Kjeld passed through the doorway, looking less alert than usual. The idiot had been drinking, and coupled with Mercer's annoyance, it was a dangerous combination. The man lunged, and Mercer seized and twisted his wrist, shoving him to the floor, and threatening to break his arm. Kjeld groaned, and Mercer brought his mouth close to the youth's ear.

"That's your last warning."

Too bad the fool wasn't competent or sober enough for a true fight. Mercer left him there, shaken and floundering, and captured Prim's attention when he returned to the common room. She frowned for a moment, and then sauntered closer, wobbling on a turn. He snaked an arm around her waist, and pulled her against him. He hadn't felt this much of her since he'd carried her back to Riften, her entire length now touching him.

"You've had enough," he growled.

"I'm not nearly as tipsy as you think I am," she chuckled, laying a hand on his chest. Fingers rubbed absently against the fabric of his tunic. "Not everyone needs to be drunk to laugh and have a good time, Mercer muffin."

What had she just called him? Muffin? Of all the infuriating, nonsensical things to ever come from her lips, that took the prize. She twisted away from him, and for a moment, his fingers tightened to keep her close, but with a scowl, he quickly released her. He'd seen the way Brynjolf touched her, the two utterly comfortable in one another's presence. If they weren't already intimate, they probably would be soon. Perhaps he might steal a piece of the redhead's prize beforehand, the thought sorely tempting, if Prim could be coaxed into it.

"Muffin," she repeated in a whisper, and the sly spark in her tone and gaze supported her claims of sobriety. He cared not, and left her to the revel.

* * *

Night had descended, and although still early, it was time for bed. Mercer would no doubt want to leave early tomorrow, weather permitting. The snow on the ground would prove cumbersome, but Prim doubted it would stop the man, and she'd faced far worse than cold feet in life. She smiled as she stepped into their room, pleasantly filled with mead, but not nearly enough to cause problems. She was too cautious for that sort of indulgence, especially when there was work to be done. She even managed to be soundless as she removed her surcoat, leaving her in nothing but the dress.

A single candle burned on the table, its light catching worn lettering on a book's cover. She ran fingers over the imprint. Darkest Darkness. It suited Mercer, although perhaps that was a bit unfair. The man looked peaceful as he laid in bed, and nearly made her jump when he spoke.

"I don't want to hear a single complaint about traveling with a hangover tomorrow."

"I told you that I'm not drunk," she reiterated, smiling.

She snuffed out the candle and crawled into her own bed, facing him. She could make out his outline as her eyes adjusted, her body warm and surprisingly pleased with the day. The feel of his arm around her lingered in her mind. If she'd had a little more to drink, perhaps she'd be bold enough to reach out and touch him, but once something started between them, there would be no stopping it unless he agreed. She would constantly see him in the cistern, making it all the worse if she wanted more or less and he didn't.

_Here you go again_, her mind warned.

"You've done a lot," she softly spoke. "The guild. Stealing treasure. Keeping us afloat despite everything...Ha. I'd hate to stroke your ego. Divines know you don't need it. You could have handled Goldenglow without waiting for me. I don't know why you didn't. I guess as the guildmaster, you can take it easy and let everyone else do the legwork."

"I didn't get this far in life to die in some quiet corner," he replied, voice flat.

"I suppose you'll remain a restless soul, even after death."

"Neither of us will sleep if you keep talking," he warned.

No doubt he thought that was the end of it. Prim recognized the order for what it was, and closed her eyes, more certain than ever that he'd be yanking her out of bed at some ungodly time. He was restless, she realized, for all of his outward stillness, like a snake coiled to strike. She inhaled as Nocturnal's words returned to her from that night in the wilderness, when she'd thought herself as good as dead.

_"__Will you turn to betrayal like the last one?"_

Karliah had introduced Nocturnal's shrine to the cistern, and had then betrayed everyone. The daedra herself had clearly forged some sort of connection with the guild or certain members, and how deep it went, Prim could only guess. Neither Delvin nor Brynjolf had been overly involved in that aspect of guild life, but what about Mercer? Hadn't he, Gallus, and Karliah been close?

"My soul will go to Hircine," she spoke, voice taut. "But not if I can help it."

"I told you..." Mercer growled.

"Yours belongs to Nocturnal, doesn't it?"

The room went deathly silent, the void suffocating. She didn't dare move, reluctant to even breathe. Maybe she could roll to face the wall and the moment would pass without comment, except that she was frozen in apprehension of his response.

"I know exactly where my soul is going," Mercer finally stated.

She didn't speak a word for the rest of the night.


	4. Chapter 4

Prim's eyes opened to darkness. Daybreak had not yet come, but the chirping of birds told her that it approached. It was not the birds that had awoken her though. Heavy footsteps passed along the wall beside her, muted by the snow, but clumsy and loud. A slow drag accompanied each movement, and a growl told her that the visitor wasn't human. She listened while slowly pulling back the blankets, and shifted toward the bed's edge. A hand touched her arm, drawing her eyes to Mercer. So he too had been awakened. He laid in the bed beside her, and motioned to the wall in confirmation.

She nodded and slid from the bed to silently remove her dress, slipping into her now dry clothing and buckling her armor. He quietly readied himself as well, their weapons drawn as Prim lifted her nose to the shutters. She smelled trolls and blood, and found Mercer so close that she brushed his arm when turning.

"Trolls," she whispered into his ear.

"Two or three."

"I don't know. I can't tell."

"It wasn't a question."

How long had he been awake listening to the sounds outside? Surely not much longer than herself, she decided. They were silent as shadows as they exited the room, the fire pit burning low, and dim light leaking around shuttered windows, hinting at the approaching dawn. People slept on their bed rolls along the room without stirring. So no one else had heard, and just as well. Prim noted that the front door was closed, but not barred, and wondered whether or not trolls had the intelligence to open doors.

"They might pass through," she whispered.

"They're being bold," Mercer replied. "If they find food, they won't leave."

"Oh, I think they've already found something. I smelled blood."

She'd barely finished speaking when a horse's panicked winy tore through the hair, following by splintering wood and chickens raising a ruckus. Kjeld and his father stumbled from their rooms, struggling to pull on boots in their rush. Others too were rousing and looking around in confusion, all while the grunts and cries of trolls overtook the horse. A final, high-pitched cry punctuated the air, and then there was nothing.

"Damn it!" Prim cursed, flinging the front door open.

The path to the stable had been cleared of snow, providing an open view of the building's broken door, its shattered planks swinging on hinges. Two trolls were dragging a now dead horse from inside, their squat but bulky forms covered in molted fur. Claws dug into the horse's flesh while a third troll climbed onto the stable's roof, tearing at a chicken. The remaining chickens were scattering like mad, struggling to leap over the snow that pinned them in, and finally funneling in Prim's direction. The movement drew troll eyes to her.

"Ugly fetchers," she hissed, raising her sword.

She began a cautious advance, thinking herself alone until Mercer suddenly took the lead. The man was fast, and did not wait for the trolls to take the initiative. The first one to charge was his for the taking, falling quickly to his dual-wielded sword and dagger. He slashed and stabbed in quick succession, the trolls screeching, and the one on the roof pounding the wood beneath itself in fury. Prim pulled a dagger free from her armor and threw it, striking the creature's chest and sending it tumbling over the back of the building. It would recover. Speed was the key.

"To your right!" she shouted, passing Mercer.

She left him to slay the other troll as she rounded the stable's back and skidded through the snow. The rear of the building hadn't been shoveled well, and snow tugged at her calves as she braced herself to strike. The troll, however, was gone, a trail of red leading into the pines.

"Shit," she breathed, unable to spot the beast.

A screech ripped through the forest, echoed by another. More were coming.

"Mercer!" she called, returning to the front of the stable. He kicked the corpse at his feet, sending it rolling to the edge of the shoveled path. Prim studied the numerous gashes covering the beast's body, and then the open cavity of the horse. Disgusting creatures, and Mercer agreed judging by his scowl and the wad of spit he left on his latest kill.

"Gods damn it!" Kjeld bellowed, running into this midst. His father was already inside the stable, assessing the damage and cursing the trolls for killing their only horse. Goats cowered in a corner, shaking and pressing into the wall as their owners tried to calm them.

"You need to get back inside," Prim stated, standing in the doorway. "More are coming."

"Let them!" the father spat, hefting an ax onto his shoulder.

But the two men had no armor, and their heavy, bulky weapons were ill-suited to the fast if graceless movements of trolls. Prim looked to Mercer for support, but the man was facing the wilderness, eyes squinting.

"They're coming," he intoned.

Prim braced herself as a troll plowed around the building, sending an eruption of snow ahead of it. There were others. She wasn't sure how many as she sliced at the one charging her, neatly cutting and warding off its arms before they could strike. Damned troll hide was thick as leather armor, and she swung hard to inflict mortal damage. There was no time to check on Mercer or the others, although she heard screaming from inside the Braidwood Inn and Kjeld shouting for his son to follow him. The two took off running as she turned and drove her blade deep into the back of the troll fighting Mercer.

She yanked the sword free and turned to the inn, where a tumult of screaming and shouting continued. Divines, but had trolls gotten inside? She began running for the building.

"Prim!"

She smoothly spun on her feet to face the stable, eyes widening at the very large, very angry troll that was leaping from the building's roof. Its mouth was open in a roar as it launched into the air, sailing directly for her. She threw herself sideways into snow that swallowed her, the whiteness burying and blinding her. She kicked wildly at the unseen creature so near her, and scrambling to her feet, breached the snow just long enough to see and duck beneath a clawed limb.

Blood sprayed across her face, but it wasn't hers. No, Mercer was cutting into the troll, alternate weapons slashing across the creature's chest. Hair flew across his face as he swung his weight into a final blow that felled the beast. The body collapsed in the snow beside her, and so near, its stench was overpowering.

"The inn," she blurted.

She jumped to her feet, passing Mercer at a sprint and bursting through the inn's open doorway. The screams had died, and a very dead troll was slumped over the fire pit, its charred flesh and fur poisoning the air. Her face contorted in disgust as she swallowed a gag and sheathed her sword. Deep ax wounds marked the corpse, the creature clearly dead, and all present looked unharmed. Several men grabbed limbs and dragged the troll outside, tossing it down the hill on which the inn sat while chickens continued to scurry about the common room.

"Was anyone hurt?" Prim worried.

"I think we're fine," Iddra quivered. The woman already had a bucket of water, and began scrubbing at the mess the troll had left, hands working feverishly until her husband rubbed a hand across her shoulder. The people were shaken, but all seemed well enough.

"Thank you," Iddra's husband spoke. "For your help."

"We need to remove the bodies before wolves come," someone stated, the sentiment echoed nervously by all present. The discussion continued as Prim fought back the stench of troll, her wolf utterly revolted. Some creatures were simply unfit for eating, even for werewolves.

Mercer entered the inn behind her, his weapons spotlessly clean.

"The only good troll is a dead one," he lowly commented. He looked unfazed, but she'd expected nothing less. He rolled his left shoulder, frowning, and met her eyes. Through the doorway behind him, daylight was creeping across the horizon. "We're eating and leaving," he stated. "Make sure you're ready to go."

"But sir," Iddra protested. "You and your friend deserve something more for your help. We could spare a goat and have a proper meal. Isn't that right?"

She looked to her husband, who hesitated, but then nodded.

"We can spare an animal for the occasion," he decided.

Mercer did not look inclined to wait, his frown deepening.

"Thank you," Prim buffered. "But I'm afraid that we should be on our way. Bread and cheese is fine, and if you could pack some for the road."

Iddra assured her that provisions would be readied, but she was barely listening. Mercer was already in their room and buckling his bag. He seemed more at ease, as though the fight had afforded a much needed outlet, and perhaps it had. He brushed hair from his face, and she caught a smear of blood at the edge of his forehead. She reached out without thinking, wiping it away. There was a light scrape near his scalp, easily missed but for the drop of blood it had drawn.

"You're bleeding," she stated.

He touched his forehead, checking the splash of red it left on his finger.

"Less than nothing," he dismissed.

"Just a moment," she frowned. "Let me see."

She again reached a hand toward his head, and he turned, denying her the opportunity. He dropped his bag on the floor with an air of impatience, leaving her frown to morph into a full glower. Even minor wounds were meant to be attended to lest larger problems arise.

"It will only take a moment," she informed him.

This time he did not pull away as she brushed his hair aside. His eyes even closed as she followed the inflicted scratch, the red line shallow enough that it would quickly heal. His hair was softer than she would have expected, and with his eyes closed, he couldn't see how her gaze lingered on his face. _I'm a thief,_ she thought. Stolen gold. Stolen glances. Second nature now.

"I saw staunch weed in the storeroom," she said, stepping back. "I'm sure Iddra wouldn't mind."

His arm shot out, pressing against the wall and blocking her path. Surprised by his resistance, she halted, staring at him in question.

"We have been trapped in this cursed inn for more than two days," he stated. "We are eating and leaving, and that's the end of it." He retracted his hand and slung his pack over one shoulder. She did not miss that blankets were missing from the beds, and that his pack looked quite a bit larger. Was he preparing for nights outside in the northern land? She'd never been there before, but had heard stories. Vilkas called it a desert of ice.

"I'm surprised you didn't insist on the goat," Mercer muttered under his breath.

"They were just trying to show their gratitude," Prim countered.

"They have nothing to offer, and if they did, I could simply take it."

"Of course a good meal isn't reward enough for you." She stood in the doorway, angled so that he could pass if he wished, but not without inconvenience. He stalled beside her, and she tilted her head in thought. "What exactly would a master thief consider a worthy reward?"

She meant the comment partly in earnest and partly in jest. It was supposed to be a taunt, yet her tone failed in its delivery. She internally floundered as his gaze sharpened, heat rising along the collar of her tunic. Such a searing stare, and that wasn't anger she sensed. She had no idea what to expect as he drew too close for comfort, passing so close to her that she drew back against the doorframe.

"Ask me again when you really want to know," he drawled, voice dangerously level.

Prim counted as he walked away, and then joined him at table near the front door, Iddra bringing them the last warm meal that they were likely to have for days. There was bread and cheese, and hot porridge too, and Prim shoveled the mush into her mouth. Eating slowly wasn't appealing when troll still lingered in the air to sour her appetite, and how one creature could smell so foul was beyond her. Mercer actually paused to survey her haste, so quickly did she inhale her food. She finished before him, and handled packing enough food for several days. They would likely need to hunt.

By the time their supplies were packed, Mercer was ready to leave. She shouldered her pack and said farewell to each of the locals, saving an embrace for Iddra. She was almost sorry to step outside, not because of the cold or the thick snow, but because she already felt the shift in the wind. Mercer had engaged in more idle conversation in the last two days than she'd ever heard, speaking of things beyond the guild and even sharing a bit about himself. Now they were back on the road, returning his focus to Karliah, and the suspended world of the inn already gone. Such a brief time, yet she clasped it tightly, relieved that no one had accompanied them since another's presence might have sealed his lips into discontented silence.

They would be alone on this journey for days yet, but the door already seemed to have closed. Of course it had, but that was the way of things, and in life, she would collect her pearls, however imperfect. She still squirmed thinking about Nocturnal's hand hanging over him, much like Hircine waited for her.

"Safe journey!" Iddra waved. The woman stood in the doorway while Prim descended the front steps. "Where are you heading?"

"North," she answered.

"Not up above Windhelm, I hope. The path is impossible in winter. There are snowdrifts and avalanches. You'll never make it through the hills until after the spring thaw!"

"We'll be fine."

"It's too dangerous!"

Prim merely smiled and waved over her shoulder as she marched through the snow. The woman clearly didn't understand Mercer's determination, although she did wonder if the guildmaster had heard the shouted advice. Even the most capable travelers knew when not to pit themselves against nature. What was one person shaking their fist at the heavens worth anyway? Nothing, she thought, but she'd be damned for belittling such defiance.

They made slow progress northward, over the river below Windhelm, and bypassing the city's stone walls. The battlements dominated the landscape, imposing a sense of control on the wilderness, although the impression was short-lived. Civilization faded from view as Mercer led the way upward and onto tundra, rolling hills looking deceptively smooth in the snow. She wasn't entirely sure that they were hills at all, but perhaps the snowdrifts Iddra had mentioned, the wind building white fortresses against rocky outcroppings. She remembered stories from the halls of Jorrvaskr, stories about the unwary mistaking snow for solid ground and tumbling to their injury or death.

_"There are crevices in the tundra. Worn out of the rock. They disappear in winter."_

"Step lightly," Mercer warned.

Her gaze rose to the mountains west of them while she bundled hands inside her cloak. It would soon be dusk, and they'd made more distance than she'd thought possible. Her legs felt the strain of hard travel, and divines, but turning wolf would have been very comforting and warm.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered, sinking into the snow up to her thighs when feet found a hole. She scowled and climbed free, knowing it would be a damp and miserable night. Cursed man and his determination! A vibration in the ground made her pause as they passed against a snowdrift, its crest towering above them and frozen solid. She inhaled and looked around for mammoths, yet there were none. Perhaps on the other side of the drift.

"Mammoths," she stated, informing Mercer.

He didn't respond, but he did pause when the vibrations of heavy footsteps resonated up through their boots. A crackling sound splintered through the snowdrift's frozen wall, making Prim's hair stand on end. The vibrations continued, and this time, she saw visible cracks in the wall.

"Holy shit," she gasped.

"Move!" Mercer ordered, running.

She ran after him, the snow wall collapsing behind them, caving like a wave and threatening to bury or sweep them away. She panted, legs burning to keep pace with Mercer, whose gray cloak whipped behind him. The fabric brushed her face as a blanket of white engulfed her, making her plant herself firmly in place with a prayer for mercy as visibility was lost. For a moment, she clenched her eyes shut, only slowly opening them to see that the wall of snow was completely gone. The drift had not claimed her, and more miraculous yet, she stood alone in a flattened patch of snow, buried only to her ankles.

"Mercer?" She turned in a circle, looking for the guildmaster, but he was nowhere in sight. "Mercer!" Her voice echoed over the plane, imprudently loud, but she didn't care. Her lungs tightened as she plowed through the snow, certain that he must have been swept in the same direction as the drift. She could not see him—could not smell him.

"Please, please," she frantically whispered, throat constricting

Her boots found the edge of the land, snow still tilting and tumbling over the edge of a gorge as the wind bullied it. The drop below wasn't far, but jagged rocks protruded from the bottom, their size impossible to gauge in the snow. She knelt and peered over the ledge, body burning with a desperation she hadn't felt in so long that she'd forgotten just how much it hurt. Her limbs were heavy, near immobilized as a ragged breath escaped her lips. She couldn't find him.

_This can't be happening. He can't be dead, not Mercer._

Nonsense ran through her head at a furious rate as she stood and scoured the land time and time again. A spot of gray near the ledge sent her heart pounding. She fell to the ground beside it, hands scooping snow aside and tugging at the cloak. She shouldn't have felt such anguish, yet her hands trembled in fear that it would be too late. When had she last felt such dread?

"Mercer," she pleaded. "By the nine, please..."

"What are you doing?" a sharp voice demanded.

Her hands still as she pulled the cloak free. It was attached to nothing, and there, pulling himself over the nearby ledge, was Mercer Frey. For a moment, she didn't process what she was seeing, her chest still heaving and the cloak grasped until her knuckles ached. He straightened, looking more annoyed than anything as he dusted snow from his armor.

"Damn snow," he cursed, shaking his head clear of it. He scowled as he marched closer, bending down and tearing his cloak from her hands. He whipped it clean in the wind, and then drew it around his body, quickly noticing that she remained immobile. "Are you stuck?" he snapped.

"No," she immediately answered, rushing to her feet. Her throat remained tight, but her breathing had evened out, a dampness at the corner of her eye catching her off guard.

"We need to find somewhere to..." Mercer paused, frowning as she turned away. "Are you crying?" He sounded outraged, or perhaps completely and utterly unprepared. It was hard to tell when his expression was all muddled like that.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped. "The wind blew snow in my eyes."

She composed herself, feeling a fool, before angling to face him. His expression betrayed nothing, and whether or not he believed her, she couldn't tell. She didn't quite believe her own response, and internally raged against herself. Why? Why did it need to be like this? It had been so long since she'd felt such terror at the notion of losing someone. She'd seen so much death since she'd left Daggerfall—had lain silent beneath a wagon, hidden from bandits as a man's blood dripped onto her face, dieing right in front of her.

She wanted to get away from Mercer, and yet, wanted to remain right where she was beside him as they stood on the now leveled ground. He exhaled, breath fogging as he stared into the sky.

"We have another day ahead of us," he commented. "Over that bluff."

She stared into the distance, barely able to distinguished the landmark he'd identified. It looked small from here, but she knew better. They would either need to find a pass or climb, and who knew how long that would take. More like two days, not one. Divines, but it would be nasty to scale rocks and avoid death in this weather.

"This is a bad idea," she decided.

Mercer said nothing, staring silently at the bluff, and then grimaced.

"Shadows take it!" he spat, lips pulled back in a snarl. "Karliah has lived long enough." His torn traveling pack was by his feet, and he seized it with unnecessary force, slinging it over his shoulder and turning back the way they'd come.

"Mercer?"

"Are you coming or not?" he growled. "If we can't make it over the rocks, neither can news. She has no idea we're coming. The bitch would laugh to find us frozen on some cliff."

Prim said nothing, but was relieved by his decision. She hurried after him, back toward Windhelm, but the day was drawing to a close, and they would need to set camp. A small area wedged between an outcropping and boulders would make do, shielding them from the wind if nothing else. Oh, but she wanted to transform as they nestled into the space, the wooden staves bundled within her pack quickly turning to flame with the help of a little magicka. The fuel would burn to nothing soon, but for a while at least, they warmed and dried themselves. Her fingers pried a cork free from a bottle of wine, courtesy of Iddra.

"Let's hope this helps us sleep," she commented, taking a swig and passing it to Mercer. There was bread too, and jerky, the two of them sitting close together as they chewed, each left to their own thoughts. The fire was already dwindling, making her sigh as she helped herself to Mercer's bag. He had pilfered quite a few blankets, and there were the sleeping mats they'd brought from Riften as well. He wordlessly stared into the last flames as she arranged the mats side-by-side, pressed together as she eased her tired body onto one. The sky above was dark and thick with clouds. If Akatosh had any mercy, it wouldn't snow.

"I have never been so cold in my life," she murmured.

"You're in the wrong province if you can't handle this."

He laid down beside her, and she scooted closer for the body heat, keeping little space between them as she rolled to face away from him. She couldn't lay facing him after what had happened but a short while ago, the choking of her emotions fresh in her mind. She hadn't known him long enough to care so deeply, and after seeing so many people pass through her life, thought it unwise. And why him of all people? He had never gone out of his way for her or shown particular kindness—had never cast any favor her way except when it came to difficult jobs—and yet, just thinking about him falling over that ledge had made her near hysterical.

He moved closer, and she listened, tensing as a hand touched her hair. He wrapped an arm around her waist, the other sliding beneath her neck in an embrace. She offered no resistance, her mind rushing to catch up with events as he drew her against his chest, their bodies molding together.

"It's fucking cold," he grumbled. "This is no time to be picky. Stay still."

His breath tickled her ear, her stiffened body unwinding only as the benefit of warmth seeped into her. Her share of the blankets became theirs, the combined layers surprisingly insulating as his chest rose and fell against her back. The traveling packs were stacked by their heads, preventing snow from drifting over them, and the wind was blocked by stone to spare them the worst of the tundra. She closed her eyes and wrapped one hand into his palm, feeling the callouses on his flesh. He responded by burying his face against her hair and neck, momentarily lifted one arm to pull a blanket over their heads. Their little mountain of cloth felt like a world unto itself.

Prim sighed and inhaled his scent. She cared about this man more than she wanted to admit, but exhaustion soon put her to sleep, sparing her thought for the rest of the night.

* * *

Morning brought sunshine, and sunshine brought warmth. Prim felt the sun through the blankets, weak but better than nothing as she remained curled on her mat. Mercer was wrapped around her, unmoving as she held herself perfectly still. His breath was deep and mellow, hinting that he still slept, and she would not wake him, not when doing so would mean peeling back the layers of their cocoon and exposing them to the cold. So she laid there, focusing on the feel of his fingers twitching against her own in sleep. He was dreaming, and she wondered what a master thief dreamed of.

_Gold and jewels_, she mused. Or maybe he dreamed of Karliah's head and pissing on shrines to Nocturnal, fueled by a grudge for which she only had an inkling of understanding. His legs gently moved, flush against her own as he tightened his grip, then loosened it. He might have been any man in sleep, as guileless and peaceful as anyone, and damn, but it felt almost wrong to catch him in such a tender moment. In Riftweald, it had been different. He'd been commanding and grim even in sickness, not like this. Her heart beat a little faster as her cheeks flushed, aware of just how good he felt against her body.

She moved but a little, accidentally breaking the spell. He stirred, remaining near still, but the arm around her waist reflexively pulled tighter against her. She was reluctant to move, yet knew she should throw his arm off her. He was not a kind man.

_"Ask me again when you really want to know."_

Had that been an invitation to press more physical behavior? His suggestive tone rang through her head, unending and adding to her quickly warming body as he shifted against her.

"I'm cold just thinking about getting up," she exhaled.

"Stop complaining."

She yawned and gently pulled away from him, rolling onto her back. He remained on his side, facing her, so close their noses might touch. He was stern and unmovable as always, although his messy hair made him look less dignified than usual. She closed her eyes, unable to bear his silent gaze, and cursed when the blankets were suddenly lifted from her body. Mercer was up and packing, ready to go in an instant and not waiting for her. She shook her head at his brisk manner, and kept pace with him, back across the land and down to Windhelm. They would not be stopping in the city, nor anywhere it seemed, but the distance was too far for a day. Kynesgrove would be close by nightfall, so perhaps they might stop there, but she doubted it. Mercer was focused.

_He's probably angry about wasting his time_, she mused.

The journey north had not given him Karliah, just snow and more snow. Spring was weeks away, and the north would need time to thaw once the cold lifted. Winterhold would never experience the mild, green springs of Riften, but travel would be safer. Thank Akatosh that the guildmaster had relented when logic flew in the face of his fervor. She didn't think the trip a waste for her part, but wasn't entirely sure it had done any good either. Her thoughts on the matter were best kept private.

They stopped only when nightfall fully conquered the sky. Kynesgrove was indeed close, but she had assumed correctly in thinking that Mercer would shun it. He angled from the road, into a tangle of pines that little snow had infiltrated. The ground was littered with old, wet pine needles, and plenty of twigs and branches for firewood. She brushed thin snow away and made a clear space for their camp near the edge of the trees, where snow would not so easily fall and douse a fire. Kindling quickly caught, sending smoke upward through the branches.

Mercer had disappeared, but to where, she knew not. She remained by the fire, warming herself while her stomach grumbled. Their provisions were nearly gone, the remainder saved for tomorrow, their last day on the road. An empty stomach made for drab company though, and she was pleased when he stepped from the shadows with a dead rabbit, making quick work of the body before skewering and leaning it over the fire.

They sat in silence as impenetrable as the night. His mood warned her against breaking it, and she wasn't particularly tempted to given her fatigue. The soles of her feet ached from two long days, and the foreboding cloud above Mercer had lingered since morning. He must have noticed her staring at his profile, much like he noticed everything, for his eyes shifted toward her. She immediately redirected her attention to the fire, watching orange and yellow dance and fight one another for dominance.

_If you don't say it now, you never will._

She waged an internal debate before remembering that tomorrow afternoon, they would reach Riften. It would be back to a desk standing between them, curt exchanges focused on business and familiar patterns. They would not speak for days at a time, not unless there was work. Perhaps she had been nothing to him but a means to fill the boredom at Braidwood, and perhaps the break in pattern was only due to circumstances, but it wasn't without meaning, not to her.

"I thought you'd fallen," she stated. "Back there above the gorge. I thought you were gone."

He said nothing, and she focused on the crackle of flames to fill the void.

"Do you think I would die so easily?" he finally spoke, voice gruff but muted.

"No. I just..."

"I was dancing with death before you were even born." He took a finger and touched the scar near the base of his neck, tracing it. "Daggerfall," he stated. "From breaking into a mage's house. At the same age, you were learning how to curtsy."

"And how to hide," she darkly added. "And to hold your tongue; agree with everything you hated or risk punishment. As soon as I left all of that behind, I started cussing like a sailor. A Khajit trader taught me to use daggers. A mercenary taught me to kill and ask questions later." Her smile was bittersweet. "I wouldn't go back, you know. Even if I could, I wouldn't."

But none of that addressed what she'd meant to convey. Perhaps he understood and didn't wish for anymore sentimental words. Sentiments were probably of little use to him, just like a warm greeting or farewell. To Oblivion with that though. Her mouth opened of its own accord, determined to have its say, even when her mind disagreed.

"I couldn't find you, so I didn't know what to think. If you'd fallen..." His sharp gaze was disconcerting, even threatening, as if going any further would be very unwise on her part. She offered him a tight smile, daring him to cut her off. "I'd miss you."

There. She'd said it. Let the grumpy thief take it however he wanted. His mouth was flat, forehead furrowed in thought.

"Don't turn sentimental on me," he ordered, but not as harshly as she'd expected. "There's no place for that kind of nonsense in the guild."

"Another of my failings as a thief no doubt," she softly teased.

Silence again descended, but it was no longer uncomfortable. He laid the cooked rabbit across a rock, and they ate, wordlessly dividing it. Then they were on their separate mats, sleep tauntingly close as she breathed pine and earth. She could recall her first night sleeping beneath the stars, the wilderness terrifying to a young woman on her own for the first time. The darkness was not without threats, even now, when she moved through them so easily. The shadows might be watching, yet she had seen no signs of her strange visitor since the death of the assassins. It had only briefly shown interest in her and the statue that Brynjolf had reportedly handed off to a pawnshop.

_Maybe people can't reach Karliah right now, but what about shadows? _

The thought chilled her, and surely the same had occurred to Mercer. Brynjolf had told her that the shadow was imaginary, but Mercer had never said a word against her claims, and it would be just like him to call her silly and delusional if he indeed thought as much. She was no longer sleepy as she sat up, occupying herself with tossing more sticks into the fire, and tucking pine cones into the coals. The flames sparked with renewed life.

"Are you going to be restless all night?" Mercer asked.

"I don't know. Do you think Karliah will know that we're coming by spring?" She began tossing pine cones into the flames, just so her hands had something to do. "I know everyone thinks that I was seeing things, but the shadow was real. It seemed interested in...oh divines," she bemoaned, chilled by a sudden realization. "It had something to do with Nocturnal, didn't it? She said that she could make me a shadow."

"One night," Mercer mumbled. "One night of blessed peace."

"You'll have plenty of quiet when we get back to Riften," she replied. "You can entomb yourself in Riftweald like usual for all anyone cares." He jerked into a sitting position, half-covered in blankets as he scowled. "Mercer, I need to know. I know she's connected to the shadows and the guild. You. Karliah. And she's come to me three times now. She kept offering me things—said that I could be a shadow or have her key..."

"What?" he snapped, cutting her off.

"Her key," she repeated, frowning. "I was in this room with locked doors, and there was a key in the middle. It didn't look like any key I've ever seen, and she...she was so damn cryptic. I guess that's no surprise since she's a daedra." She rolled a pine cone in her hands, the rough edges prickling over her skin. "There was a river too, and for a moment, I thought about drinking from it."

"Did you accept any of her offers?" His voice hinted at danger, although whether from him or Nocturnal, she couldn't tell, not when he looked so damned intense. This was the same face he'd worn when staring into the distance at the bluff between them and Karliah.

"No," she answered. "Never."

"It's easy to say never," he intoned.

"Don't," she blurted, eyes hardening. "She said almost the exact same thing, and laughed at me. I've turned her down three times, haven't I? Mercer, do I need to be worried about Nocturnal? How deeply involved in this whole thing is she? Brynjolf told me that Karliah...he used to help her collect nightshade flowers to put around a shrine on the first full moon of a new year."

"It's a day revered by thieves."

"Please, Mercer. Do I need to worry about her?" she reiterated. "Nocturnal mentioned betrayal. She must have been talking about Karliah."

A humorless smile touched his lips. No, not a smile. _That_ could not be termed a smile, but she didn't know how else to label it.

"And she said nothing else?" he pressed. She shook her head, wary of his predatory demeanor. That his tense energy was directed at her raised her defenses. "Nocturnal has nothing to do with the guild, not anymore," he stated. "And she doesn't give a damn if you reject her offers. There are always other souls. It's not Nocturnal you need to worry about, not unless you make a deal with her. Did you even think to ask about what she might offer? No?" He made a derisive noise in he back of this throat. "Then don't talk like you'll be able to just walk away each and every time. For all you know, a deal might be worth your while, depending on what you want."

She reached for another pine cone, and he seized her wrist, stopping her.

"Enough," he spoke. "Go to sleep."

She pulled, and he let her hand slide through his, back to her lap. He was right. She was keeping them both awake, and she quickly laid back down. Only when she was settled did he follow suit, muttering something that she did not catch. She closed her eyes against him and the forest, knowing that perhaps the shadows watched, and if they did, they could kiss her ass.

* * *

Riften was as gray and bustling as always, the usual street urchins underfoot, smoke pouring from chimneys, and market-goers bargaining. Maul gave Mercer and Prim a curt nod in greeting, and from the opposite direction, Mjoll grinned and waved. Prim didn't care what Mercer might think as she waved back, and despite a thoughtful step, Mjoll came no closer, the guildmaster effectively keeping the other woman at bay. What Mjoll would say about that later, Prim could only imagine. Perhaps she should tell the woman that she'd gone on a trip with Mercer as hired help. She didn't have long to dwell on the matter as Nura strolled closer, her priestess robes draped gracefully toward the ground.

"Good to see you, Prim," the woman smiled, eyes briefly alighting to Mercer. "And my silent neighbor."

"Greetings, Nura," Prim beamed.

"Stop by sometime for dinner," the woman insisted. "I found something that might be of interest to you. I'd invite him," she added as Mercer walked away, the man leaving them without a word. "But I only made that mistake once, when he first bought Riftweald. Take care of yourself, dear. Talos guide you."

"I'll come by," Prim promised.

She hurried to catch up with Mercer, the man already opening the front door to Riftweald. He would be in the cistern come nightfall, she was sure, if for nothing more than to make sure that the place hadn't crumbled in his absence, but that was no good. She only had moments right now before he disappeared inside his home, and what did she intend to say anyway?

"Mercer!"

He paused, looking to her as she neared. A familiar glimpse of red and merchant's garb briefly drew her attention away, to where another thief stood, frozen as his gaze found her, and she broke into a smile, but wait. She needed to speak with Mercer, although she had nothing to say. The man stood there, eyebrows arched as he too caught sight of Brynjolf.

"When spring comes," he leveled. "No excuses."

"I'll be ready," she returned, equally firm.

Their gazes remained locked a moment more before the door to Riftweald closed.

"Prim!"

Brynjolf swept her into a hug, voice brimming with relief. She returned the motion, pleased to be back in the city. She would dine with everyone in the Ragged Flagon tonight, and tell them about being snowed in and attacked by trolls. Everything else...well, that could remain private, even though Brynjolf would undoubtedly learn some of it when they found themselves without eavesdroppers. He released her and stepped back, looking to Riftweald.

"Did you find her?" he questioned.

"No, but Mercer knows where she is now. We won't be able to reach her until the north warms a little. You won't believe what happened."

"You can tell me the story back in the cistern. Ready, lass?"

"Always," she chuckled, joining him as they strolled toward the canal. She looked over her shoulder but once, back toward Riftweald, so large, imposing, and empty. Mercer hadn't fallen off a gorge, but she missed him already, and in the back of her mind, a shadow watched.

* * *

**Author's note**: That concludes this section of the story. The next and final section will be much longer, and I'm already working on it. Tension between Prim and Mercer will finally reach boiling point, as I'm sure everyone is anticipating. In the meantime, I hope that this chapter of the story was satisfying. As usual, my thanks to everyone who has been reading along.


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